


Reluctant Faith

by GhoulsnHalos (Morgawse)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Cybernetics, Cyberpunk, Drug Use, Dystopia, Gen, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Team Free Will (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 79,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgawse/pseuds/GhoulsnHalos
Summary: Cybernetically enhanced bounty hunter, Dean Winchester is not a righteous man, or a bright soul. But he will hunt down anything for the right price. His brother, ex-lawman turned bounty hunter Sam Winchester is no king, but like Dean he'll bring you in if the price is right. Bunker dwelling rogue angel Castiel is immortal, unless you know how to kill one of the Host.Castiel must firstly convince Sam & Dean that he is not the real enemy despite the bounties on his head. Then he must get them to believe that the three of them are the ones foretold in prophecy.Do that, and with a bit of help from a few 'friends', Team Free Will can take on the might of the Host. The fate of a cyberpunk Wēalhaz hangs in the balance. Can the Immortal, The Boy King and the Righteous Man prophesied in the holy books save the world?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Team Free Will Big Bang: Collection 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic is by the amazing Amberdreams. I love it so much. AMB's talent blows me away and they were so easy to work with. Here's the link to their art - go check it out: [art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380582). Seriously go take a peek!
> 
> My first Team Free Will Big Bang. Thanks to the mods for organising. Thanks also goes to my ever patient cheerleader and on this occasion long-suffering beta - Poisonous Korse. Not a member of the SPN fandom but helped me with a few issues ;).
> 
> Any spelling or grammar mistakes, any typos or continuity issues that remain are solely my own! I apologise for those that I expect still squeaked by us and Grammarly.
> 
> I admit to freely (and unashamedly) having borrowed a few ideas from some of my favorite books and movies of the genre, also the now ancient RPG Cyberpunk2020. If you think something reminds you of William Gibson, Philip K Dick, Richard Morgan, and Neal Stephenson, they probably thought of it first.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We set the scene and meet our three protagonists.

It is a commonly acknowledged truth by the remaining inhabitants of the planet known as Wēalhaz that the Host are a big bag of dicks. Every one of them. Once welcomed as the saviours of a postapocalyptic nightmare, half a century later they were the dictators of most of the large landmasses and the off-world stations which were habitable enough to sustain human life.

In the ridiculed sanctuaries of the temples of the great goddess Maaxan, it had been spoken for centuries of the Immortal, the Righteous Man, and the Boy King who will save Wēalhaz from the evils of the Corca Oidce who will attempt to rule the earth in the guise of mortal men:

> _You oh people of Wēalhaz have strayed far from the way of Crëwr. You shut the doors of the temples of my children. You welcome in the strangers that bring naught but disease, destruction and oppression._
> 
> _Even though you have broken faith, I am not without mercy. For see, I will send my true messengers to rid you of your oppressors and return your freedom to you. They will come, the one that walks outside of time, the noble one and the wise young ruler._
> 
> _From the Book of Cerridwenion 3:12-17_

Of course, no one believed that in the enlightened age of netrunning, cybernetics, and rule by corporation. It would be a stupid superstitious and backward thing to do. Only the paranoid conspiracy theorists or the few remaining religious crackpots that frequent the temples would even entertain the idea that the prophecy could be true. Fewer would claim with any conviction that the Host are the Corca Oidce.

The priests of the old ways had, with each new generation, recreated icons of their Saviours in ways that spoke to the people of their age. But how do you create an image of an Immortal when anyone with enough money can become so with AI, consciousness stacks, simulant and replication technology? In a world of hedonism and iniquity, it was difficult to imagine that a true Righteous Man could exist, let alone begin to imagine how he might appear in an appealing icon. Perhaps the easiest to imagine was the Boy King – perhaps the pampered son of an elite executive with his designer clothes, perfectly bio-engineered chiselled features and excessively upgraded intelligence?

The Marrigon it seems had a sense of humour in who they chose to be the Cruthadair’s anointed. But we get ahead of ourselves. Instead, let us turn our attention to three regions of the Combined Territories of Kapron.

***************************************************************************************************

There are six zeroes on the offer. Six fucking zeroes. Dean had never seen that many carbons up close and personal before. Ok, so it was a no-gank job? Michael wanted the target alive? Wow, the dude must have royally pissed off the Northeast’s Archangel for that size of contract. if he was willing to pay that much to get his hands on him, Michael must be looking to make an example out of Emmanuel. It shouldn’t have, after all the horror he’d seen in his life, but an involuntary shudder ran through Dean when he thought of what Michael might dream up as suitable justice for whatever harm Emmanuel had done him.

Dean was not an idiot. If he was being offered the job, then it was only this side of legal. It also meant that Emmanuel couldn’t have made a direct attempt on Michael’s life. If he had, then the goon squad would have been sent in to do the job. Whatever the dude had done though, it had the CEO of Imstraer Biotech on edge enough to want to detain him without involving the police or military either. Fuck!

The problem was, however much of a suicide mission it looked like with that much money Dean could afford to treat himself to a couple of bottles of some real top-shelf whiskey – not the shitty synthalcohol Ellen usually doled out. That was once he’d settled the outrageous loan payments for fixing up Baby and the last round of hardware and software upgrades to his eyes and right arm. Not to mention making up the outstanding rent and next month’s prescription for Equalizer. Owing that much money to so many people kind of took the decision out of Dean’s hands.

The 2m carbons were still flashing at him. If he and Sammy had been on speaking terms, Sammy would have told him to put some away for a rainy day. But they weren’t, so Dean felt justified in being able to judiciously ignore that advice.

Sucking in a deep breath and wishing that he been taking his medications for once, Dean reached out and tapped the little yes button under the numbers. Instantly the offer disappeared, all trace of it ever having been sent to Dean vanishing into the ether.

Dean knew the routine. The file wouldn’t be sent by the same route that the offer was. Depending on how much of a rush job it was, he might not even see it for a couple of days. With that many carbons on the line, he expected that it would, however, come whizzing in sooner rather than later.

What to do while he was waiting? There was only one answer to that. The list went something like – pizza, beer (preferably not synthalcohol) and Busty Asian Beauties, preferably some new stuff with that one with the three breasts and the snake tattoos.

The plan was a beauty until Dean went to pay for the pizza.

“Peachy, fucking peachy.”

One large meat lover’s pizza hold the olives, but don’t ask where any of the ingredients were made, took the last carbon in his account. Dean should have read the small print of the deal from the Archangel. No upfront payment. He was on the hook until he brought the guy in and he couldn’t even have the kind of good time he wanted to while away the hours until the case details arrived.

The ugly truth of it was that of all Dean’s vices it was his gambling habit that caused him the most problems. He could hustle card games and holopool better than most people in the Northeast. Extra carbons he could spend on his other vices between jobs. However, his natural arrogance meant that when Dean got out hustled, he lost big. Some douche from out west somewhere had come into Dean’s territory a couple of weeks previously and wiped him out. Not the first time he’d done it either. You would think Dean would have learned not to go anywhere near this Loki, but the guy kept changing names and appearance so how was Dean supposed to recognise him? Goddamn filthy mega-rich bastard! Of course, after thrashing Dean at cards, the guy would pull out his carboncard with its unique marking on it and Dean would realise that Loki had scammed him again. Not even Dr Badass had been able to trace the marking, although he had pointed out that each of Loki’s aliases were the names of ancient trickster demi-gods. Since the last loss, Dean had been mostly living off out of date military rations and nutrient pills to eke out his carbons. Like a moron, he’d thought that Imstraer would have deposited a goodwill gesture into his account for saying yes to what looked like a nightmare of an assignment.

When he got the chance, Dean was going to find that good for nothing son of a bitch that kept getting one over on him and put a bullet right between his eyes. Not from his own gun of course. That would have been suicidal and, although Dean Winchester may have had an unhealthy disregard for his own safety with a side helping of martyr complex in the right situations, getting himself ghosted for no reason was not high up on his to-do list. No, Dean was going to have to travel a little further than usual to get that gun and ammunition – maybe even swallow some of that Winchester pride and enlist Sammy’s help in getting something out of the Midwest.

Dean hadn’t really wanted to be an active participant in his relaxation that night. He wanted to lie back, wrap his good hand around himself and let go while watching gorgeous off-world Asian beauties do their thing. But that cost carbons Dean didn’t have – again. Instead, Dean went old school. He jacked in using the port in his wrist, easier for him to find the chinks in next-door’s net connections that way and avoided him hitting the usage limits on his account. One of the chat servers was bound to have exactly what the doctor ordered, even if Dean was going to have to use a little of that patented Winchester charm to find a willing partner. At least his winning patter and perfectly proportioned avatar, designed to mimic and enhance his real-life good looks, never failed him. He was right too, finally falling into a thankfully dreamless, if short-lived, sleep with his lust and gluttony sated.

At first glance, some might view Dean with his peculiar moral flexibilities and wonder why he is a part of this story. But remember that things are not always what they seem on the surface and that the Marrigon that watch over Wēalhaz see the end from the beginning and they see each thread in the tapestry when humans see only those threads which are immediately before them.

*****************************************************************************************************

“You’re a handsome devil,” Sam mused, “What did you do to grace my desk?”

Desk was a relative term. Sam didn’t have a desk anymore. That had gone along with his badge. That morning Sam was tucked away in the back corner of a café drinking some mushroom-based atrocity that was masquerading as coffee. It didn’t even have an ounce of caffeine in it. It was, however, cheap, and warm against the chill of the early spring Midwest morning.

Sam wasn’t looking at a picture of the target. None had been provided yet. It was the inordinate amount of carbons that Lucifer was offering. This wasn’t a hit. Luci would go elsewhere to get that done. This was a catch and deliver alive. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as the sum of money implied. The job could have been a peace offering. As if!

It was, however, too large a sum of money to turn down.

Sam shrugged, then grimaced at the godawful taste in his mouth. He needed to find a better ‘office’ where they served something that at least approximated coffee.

“Yeah, ok. I’m in,” Sam muttered.

The screen in front of him flickered. Then the screen transformed until it glowed neon orange with strange symbols, half images, and words, in a language that even the advanced translation chip in Sam’s brain couldn’t interpret, floating across it.

One word flashed intermittently. The text was so light in comparison to the other characters that you’d have missed it if you weren’t looking for it – JIMMY.

Sam got it instantly, the target’s name was Jimmy. Not much to go on, but then Sam hadn’t been called the king of research at the Central Midwest Law Enforcement Department for nothing when he was a preantas.

Sam debated whether he should drink the rest of the sludge. It would have been wasteful not to when so many couldn’t even afford to drink in a place like that. However, the mushroom brew was a crime against humanity. Ok, so that may have been a tad overdramatic considering all the evils that the Archangel of the Midwest allowed the Clans to get away with, but it was downright stomach-turning.

That was a no then. Sam pushed the half-drunk mug to the back of the table. He rolled up the screen and keyboard, stowing them in the inner pocket of his long leather coat.

“Thanks, Eileen. Have a good day,” he signed to the brunette behind the counter.

She grinned and waved at him.

Now you see, that’s the reason why he shouldn’t change venue. Well, at least when she was on earlies anyway.

Sam stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together while he waited impatiently for his motorcycle to come to life. Should have charged it overnight. So sue him, he was exhausted after that damn bail-jumper had given him the run-around across the entirety of the outer zones for most of the night in unseasonably cold temperatures. Nowadays the cold seeped into his bones creating an intense ache.

If this job hadn’t landed, Sam would have been going after the guy’s accomplices that afternoon. The mark had to have had some help. No-one could make moves like that without back-up. Pity, for him, that he had chosen to try and hide in Garth’s chop-shop to get his tags removed. Garth had flagged the guy’s whereabouts to Sam almost before the backdoor to the shop had swung closed.

Sam let the motorcycle drive itself back to his apartment block. His mind drifted to the way that the corner of Eileen’s eyes crinkled as she smiled; how he liked that she had chosen to communicate with the ancient sign technique rather than use tech to give her hearing. Eileen was a much preferable sight than the neon high-rises and individually targeted billboards of downtown Choyotha.

It wouldn’t be creeper territory to recreate a 3d version of her for…fun…would it? Yeah maybe, Sam concluded it would. But Sam having a virtual or even a 3d replicant version would be better for Eileen. He tried hard to convince himself that keeping away from the real Eileen and her long brown hair, shapely body and gentle smile justified him even considering the pervert-like actions. Sam didn’t have the best track record with relationships. It’s not that they went sour, where they ended up fighting, and eventually decided it was better to break up. No, for some inexplicable reason practically every woman that Sam had gotten serious about had died. Hell, make that every important woman in his life – he’d managed to kill his mom off too, and he had only been a baby then. Another day perhaps.

The rest of the day was for research on…actually, not Jimmy - that could wait. It was the language he couldn’t translate that Sam was curious about. He’d paid Garth above the going rate for a black-market translation chip that handled every known Wēalhaz dialect and most known off-world ones too. The words might have been made-up gibberish. Sam’s gut told him they weren’t. What language was it? Where did it come from? That would tell him far more about what he needed to know for the hunt than Lucifer’s file on Jimmy’s crimes ever would.

Unlike Dean, at first glance, Sam appears to be a more upstanding citizen of the Combined Territories of Kapron. That is until you look at the history books and see the name Sam Winchester associated with some of the most heinous acts of police brutality that occurred during Lucifer’s run as CEO of MatraWessColt. To have that reputation in the most corrupt and violent of the four Territories was quite the unwelcome accolade. Sam always claimed that he tried to stop the acts, not commit them. Some like the infamous media guru the Queen of Moons hiding out on one of the outer rings of the Moondor colony even went so far as to suggest that Sam had been set up to take the fall by the Archangel of the Midwest himself. Interestingly, Sam never implied that he’d been Lucifer’s patsy.

****************************************************************************************************

Urghhh. How many layers did it take to keep warm in that damned place? True it was several centuries old. True when it was built it had been to house weapons, not humans. Given there had been humans using it as a home at some point before he stumbled across it, surely the silo should have had some better form of heating.

Castiel blew on his hands. Wearing gloves didn’t go with the image, not that anyone would be seeing what he wore. He should have picked a more efficient vessel. One that…what was it the humans said…one that ran hot.

Which sibling to annoy that week? He probably shouldn’t pick on Gabriel seeing as he had tolerated Castiel living in his territory. Castiel hadn’t made a message for the Archangel of the West yet, despite targeting the others several times. Gabriel, it was then. Mainly because there ought to have been a point when Gabriel had gotten off the fence unprompted. True, it was an improvement that he had stopped hiding out pretending that he wasn’t part of the Host and had taken charge of the West. Gabriel had easily rested it out of Uriel’s incompetent hands, relegating Uriel to control of the True North. However, what had looked like his older brother finally getting with the plan had turned out to be nothing more than a little ego boost and expression of Gabriel’s licentious personality. That deserved to make him a target. Like the rest of them, Gabriel had forgotten their Father’s plan.

Castiel rubbed at the incision scar at the back of his neck. To the unenhanced human eye, it was invisible. Frankly, most cybernetic eyes wouldn’t catch it. It was significantly smaller than the incision the human rich used when placing their stacks. For them, the scar was the equivalent of flashing their cash. To Castiel, any imperfection on the back of his neck was a flashing neon sign advertising that he was not who he seemed on the outside. Damnit Father, couldn’t you have worked out a better way for your children to inhabit a human body! It would make changing persona so much easier – an avatar really wasn’t appropriate to bring the Cruthadair’s message.

Blue sky, palm trees, beach and sun flashed in the periphery of his vision.

“Hello, Balthazar.”

“Don’t sound so mad, Thursday. You know you love that I’m on your side.”

That statement was debatable. Balthazar may have been a senior grade angel in the Host, but he was only ever going to be on one person’s side – his own. No point antagonising him by not agreeing though.

“Indeed. What do you want?”

“A little message from dear old Escaria – 16 and 17. Deiseil, Brawd.”

The transmission ended with a snippet of music from some show that ran almost 24/7 in Lucifer’s territory and one from a similar type of show from Michael’s.

Other than the warning to be ready, Castiel had no idea what the message meant. Balthazar may not have been the most trustworthy of comrades, but he would never issue a false warning. Baiting Gabriel could wait for another day. Perhaps he should extend some of the Cruthadair’s grace to his more senior sibling, give him one final chance to step up and pick a side – Castiel’s side.

Castiel was not going to work out what the cryptic numbers referred to and how the musical interludes were connected to them without the aid of some additional relaxation, somewhere warmer. One place in the silo provided both. Castiel hauled himself up to his bare feet and padded through the winding corridors deeper into the bowels of the silo to what he lovingly referred to as his apiary greenhouse where he kept his beloved bees and grew cannabis. He had a fresh batch stored there ready to smoke.

In the cavernous room much further beneath the mountains, the signal from the net was extremely weak. Castiel flicked the old-fashioned signal jammers to block any remaining net presence from his inner sanctum. With a joint stuck behind one ear, a lighter on the floor in front of him, he settled onto a cushion with a tattered paper copy of the Doethineda and Books of the Fàidhe. The faint humming of the bees and the electricity was comforting, helping to lull Castiel into a trance-like state while he waited for either divine inspiration or the need to get baked to strike. He was not bothered about which would come first.

It might appear strange that the very scourge of the planet Wēalhaz would also be the race that would bring forth one of its saviours. However, when you consider that the sacred word of Crëwr spoken through his divine children and their holy servants, spoke of beings created as messengers of love and hope sent by their Cruthadair to aid the human race, it might make more sense. If you believed that the Host were supposed to be these messengers of Crëwr, that is. If you didn’t believe, well then you weren’t alone. Over 95% of Wēalhaz’s population, Dean and Sam Winchester included, would have agreed with your belief. Given how the Host ruled with an iron fist quelling, by whatever means were necessary, every independent thought and action that didn’t line up with the stated aims of their respective corporations, it would be hard to disagree with that 95%. Tell the remaining 5% that one of the Host living in a deserted nuclear silo smoking weed, a disgraced soldier turned bounty hunter with too many vices to list, and a murderous ex-cop with a reputation for merciless torture were their three divinely appointed saviours, and you’d lose the faith of that small percentage. The odds aren’t in your favour when no-one, not even two-thirds of your crew believe that you can achieve what is set out in the holy book. Most of the time, Castiel was too baked or too amped to worry about it. It was the Cruthadair’s will, the Immortal, the Righteous Man and the Boy King would emerge, and the prophecy would come to pass.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Dean and Sam dig a little deeper into their targets Jimmy and Emmanuel  
> \- Cas gets used to the idea that he's the prophesied Immortal  
> \- We meet another player in the story.

Dean would readily acknowledge that he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but it didn’t take a genius to work out how Emmanuel had pissed Michael off.

In the end, he hadn’t waited to get the datafile. Unable to afford to drink himself into oblivion the night before, he had woken up before the ass crack of dawn and headed straight for Harvelle’s Roadhouse on furthest zone out past the ruins of Lotrard Deamhan city the other side of the Humsend River. He sneaked in past Ellen’s woefully lax security system and into the bar undetected.

As expected, Ash had curled up in a synthalcohol or Smash induced stupor on the holopool table. Dean had gleefully dumped a glass of water over him and shoved him off the table to wake him up. Several minutes of cursing later, Ash had retrieved his custom deck and begun trawling the dark recesses of the net for any mentions of this Emmanuel while he waited for his program to slip through the ice of Imstraer’s digital systems and into the Archangel’s files.

“Gotta hand it to the dude. He knows how to party.”

“Thought you were the genius,” Dean quipped. “The partying isn’t real. It’s designed to provoke feelings – you know those things you’re not supposed to have if you live in any of the zones of Nua Emboraca and you take your Equalizer regularly?”

Ash threw his hands up in mock despair as if it what he was about to say should have been obvious even to a thick bounty hunter like Dean. “Dude still has to know what partying hard looks like to create that.” Ash squinted at the image that hung over the holopool table. “Wow, are some of the positions those chicks are in even possible? I mean they all look human – like unenhanced, except for you know…”

Dean did know. Ash didn’t need to mime large breasts. Dean had eyes.

The music. There was something about the music that was playing in the background. Dean should know it. He knew he should know it, but he couldn’t place it. Sure, the images of the orgy would normally get him going, but as he’d already tried pointing out to Ash, the orgy wasn’t what the true reason for getting Ash to analyse the recording of the livestream. The song that Emmanuel had used was a message to Michael.

“You recognise that song, Ash?”

“No idea. It’s ancient, like way way old, man.”

There was supposed to be lyrics to the music. The original hadn’t been instrumental, Dean was convinced of that fact.

“You can find out what it is though, right? With the words. I think they’re the key to all this.”

Ash narrowed his eyes, flexed his fingers, then sent them skimming through the air typing over his deck roll, while humming along to the tune.

“Oh, and while you’re in there, genius, get me a list of all the Emmanuel’s in the four territories.”

Dean kicked his feet up on the table and leaned back in the chair. He could catch another few minutes of sleep that he’d missed out on the night before until Ash had something for him.

“Get those boots off my table, boy!”

Startled, Dean dropped his feet off the table and was up on his feet in a heartbeat, the servos already whirring in his arm and the gun readying itself for his ammunition command.

“Easy there, Dean,” Ash said. “Just Ellen.”

Dean blinked, turning off the targeting in his eyes. It was indeed Ellen, dishcloth in hand ready to flick at him if he’d kept his feet up.

“Crap!”

Dean relaxed, dropping his arm.

“Hmm. What you doing bugging Ash this early? Surprised you could wake him up. Or did you threaten him too? Huh?”

Dean didn’t dare make any wise-ass comment. Not to Ellen, patron saint of the hunter and the outcast. She’d hauled his ass out of the fire and given him a place to hide out often enough. She’d even been a tough love shoulder to cry on when Sammy had refused to leave the Midwest after their dad had died. Dean thought of her as family.

“Got it!”

Ash threw the lyrics up in front of Dean and sent audio of the song to the bar’s sound system.

Dean scanned down them, trying to figure out what it was about them that was the message. He knew the song had been chosen on purpose. The reason was there scratching away at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t catch hold of it. “Send the music and lyrics to me, please along with that list. I owe you one, man!”

Without thinking, Dean clapped Ash on the back. He withdrew his hand quickly and looked around for something to clean it on. Who the hell knew where Ash had been the night before? Stupidly he went for Ellen’s dishtowel. He got a clip round the ear and then pulled into a bone-crunching hug for his troubles.

Ellen whispered in his ear, “Don’t leave it so long before coming here again. You’re family, Dean. You don’t need carbons to come and see me, ya hear? But before you ask – no I ain’t gonna slip Ash any beer for free on your behalf – that you will need to pay for. Be careful! You know you’re gonna get yourself killed, just like your daddy, if you keep doing this shit. Mark my words.”

Driving back, Dean linked the version of the song Ash had already sent him with Baby’s radio. He played it on a continuous loop all the way back to his apartment. What did ‘bricks in walls’ have to do with an orgy and the Northeast of Kapron? He knew someone who would know the answer, but Dean was damned if he was going to be the first to hold out an olive branch. He’d stumble across the right answer himself, in time, without Sam. It was a damn shame this wasn’t Bobby’s wheelhouse.

*****************************************************************************************************

Safe in his basement, Sam gathered the ingredients he needed. He was faster on Demonex. He could dive deeper into the flow, pass through walls of ice and protection, sift facts and assimilate data at speed, all while outwardly looking to the Netwatch Cops like he was casually browsing some motorcycle spare parts catalogue or checking out cosmetic enhancement clinics.

Making the drug himself wasn’t straightforward. Nor was coming by the ingredients without arousing suspicions. Luckily, some items were found in low carbon drugstores, others he could get by digging through clinic or compounding lab waste for scraps. The hardest to come by ingredients Garth supplied him with. A trickle of something here and there out of Garth’s legitimately purchased stocks would never be noticed by the authorities. However, the homemade Demonex was the safest way for Sam to ensure that the doses were pure. It was also the way to keep his consumption down. Although he’d never admit it, if Sam could waltz up to any dealer, hand over the carbons, and walk away with enough doses for multiple deep dives, he’d never run the net any other way.

He’d only started the process when he could sense the incoming call trying to break through his do not disturb. The way that the call program was behaving had a familiar feel to it.

“Nbia?”

Sam wasn’t convinced it was Kevin. The looping insignia around the dragon avatar smacked of MatraWessColt interference. The boy genius, head of research and development for one of MWC’s wetware subsidiaries, being that obvious in contacting a disgraced cop turned bounty hunter who, if public opinion was to be believed, was supposedly number one on Lucifer’s shit list? Sam smelled a rat. A very deceased decaying rat.

“What’s up?”

“Moondor.”

“Hah, funny. Seriously, dude, why’d you contact me? Need someone picked up? They spill coffee on your latest gizmo or something?”

“Take a trip to Moondor with me? Not virtually – for real? Offworld terminal D tomorrow 8am. Oh, and Hirvi, better get an upgrade to that translator chip of yours – try the arcane version, has some old Wēalhaz Grèigeach words on it.”

The following morning, Sam slipped into the middle of the masses hurrying towards the security scanners of Terminal D. He didn’t have a ticket. He wasn’t even wanting to get on one of the shuttles, no matter what Kevin said – Sam hoped it was only an invitation for a meeting at the Terminal, not the trip itself because what the hell was Sam going to do on Moondor? But standing still in the middle of an Offworld Terminal in the morning rush was tantamount to having a flashing beacon above his head that he was up to no good. Anyone questioned him he could pull his credentials and claim that he was staking out the place on a tip-off that a target was about to try and skip off Wēalhaz. It would buy him a few minutes until they checked that Sam had no official hunts assigned, then there’d be more questions that he’d have to dream up answers to. So, he did his best to blend until whatever was supposed to happen, happened.

He was being watched. Not the usual surveillance of the blockheaded terminal security. Like properly watched. Someone who knew what they were doing. Physical eyes on and in the net, waiting for Sam to make a move. With one thought, Sam added another layer of security around his net presence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glitch. Like déjà vu, a man to his right in a disturbingly cheap suit for a corporate, with old-school aviator sunglasses covering his eyes, bent down to tie his shoelace, then repeated the movement. Unless you were looking for something unusual, you wouldn’t have noticed the movement. Sam was looking.

“Woah, Cowboy!”

Sam had only taken two steps towards the man, but his hand was already reaching for his gun – in case.

The man had both hands up in a gesture of peace. No obvious weapons.

“Heading to Moondor to meet with the prophet?”

“I have an appointment offworld this morning, yes,” Sam replied cagily. Kevin might have sent someone else with a message. A trap was equally plausible.

A dragon flashed up in the net, pawing at Sam’s security walls like a pet cat or dog asking to be let in.

Sam removed his hand from his gun, signalling he had acknowledged Kevin’s attempt at reassurance.

The man smiled pointed at a hole in the wall coffee shop and said, “Better consult with Nbia before you travel, ensure your good fortune.”

Before Sam could say anything in return, the hologram vanished.

“Nice work. That better be the real deal you have for me there!” Sam quipped as he approached the table Kevin was sat at with two mugs in front of him.

Kevin grinned and nodded. “Hot, black, freshly ground beans.”

The moan that Sam let out as he settled in the chair opposite Kevin and took his first sip was obscene.

“Get the upgrade I suggested?”

“Garth is ‘acquiring’ it for me. Why do you think I need it?”

“Ever read any of the religious mumbo jumbo, Sam? All the crap that the temples spout?”

Sam shook his head. Growing up staying alive had been a more pressing need than worrying about some hereafter, and as an adult, he’d never seen the need to take formal religion seriously. Although, if really forced he would admit that he liked to believe that there were heavenly forces looking out for them and that the dead didn’t simply evaporate when their bodies were incinerated. It made his curse easier to live with.

“Better get yourself a copy of some of those ancient religious texts and start reading. I’d get the ones the priests of any of the demi-gods associated with the one they call Crëwr have – in its original language. Might help with what you’ve been puzzling over for the last two days.”

“Right, thanks.”

Sam hadn’t ever picked the head of RandD for MWC as a religious type. He’d always assumed the nickname Kevin used in the net was a reference to his job in predicting what could be the next big thing in wetware, not alluding to something more spiritual. However, if there was one thing his previous job had taught him, it was that you never dismiss anything no matter how ludicrous until you’ve proved it to be bunkum.

“Going up there for real then, I take it? Not just a ruse to get me here?” Sam asked wanting to make his meeting with Kevin look less like a tip-off and more like two friends catching up. It paid to be overly cautious.

Kevin played along nicely, talking to Sam about his trip until the alarm on Kevin’s watch went off.

“Got to run, Sam. Can’t miss the shuttle…” As he was halfway out the door, Kevin turned looked back over his shoulder and called out, “Do yourself a favour. Patch things up with your brother. I have a feeling you might need each other’s help soon.”

As he waded through the masses, going out a different way to the one he had used to enter the terminal, Sam was grateful that he’d brewed up a little something extra alongside the Demonex. He’d need it to talk to Dean.

***************************************************************************************************

Excitement, fear, angst, or joy? Castiel couldn’t tell which emotion was uppermost. It had begun. He was, quite rightly, outraged that Balthazar, as hedonistic an angel as Gabriel, had worked it out before he had. Castiel was not simply a rebellious wild child. He was the one foretold of throughout centuries. The one the humans referred to as The Immortal, the man who was outside of time. Fuck, if that hadn’t screwed with his mind!

At first, as he had read and reread the book of Cerridwenion he had doubted it. Castiel put the self-aggrandising belief down to the effect of the cannabis he’d smoked. Two days later and he couldn’t shake the notion. Dotted around the Doethineda and some of the other tomes he’d scoured in both the net and the Host archives there were other clues about how the Immortal would behave. He would not be of the highest standing. None but a handful of either humans or angels would accept his role. Once he had made his presence known, the rulers of Wēalhaz would be out for the Immortal’s head. The Righteous Man and the Boy King would once have been amongst the elite’s numbers – men at arms, if his rusty Grèigeach served him correctly. In the present day, men at arms would mean the other two of whom the prophets had foretold would be either soldiers or lawmen.

Resuming his spot on the floor in the apiary greenhouse, Castiel did something he hadn’t thought to do in several years. Granted the chances of success were minimal, but the situation had changed. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that now he had come to accept who he was, that Crëwr his Cruthadair would finally deign to respond to his son’s prayers.

“Cruthadair, father of the Host, Crëwr of Wēalhaz, please talk to me. Give me a sign, something anything to know that you are out there, that you listen. It’s been years I know. Forgive me father - for my sins against you. I lost hope, I stopped believing that you cared about those of us you sent to Wēalhaz. I see it now though. I believe I understand that you saw the end from the beginning. You knew how both humans and your children would behave. If you would just talk with me, I will carry out your will. Confirm to me that I am your chosen son, the man outside of time, or show me who is that I may wake them up. Wēalhaz cannot continue under the rule of your children. Most of the humans cling to the idea that the Host, the ruling angels do so to maintain order and stability for the benefit of Wēalhaz. Surely under the rule of Lucifer and Michael to whose sides most of the other angels around the globe flock, the planet will be destroyed…I hope you hear me…take pity on your penitent son, Cruthadair.”

The silence in Castiel’s head was deafening. However, he had learned patience over the centuries. His father had never been one to respond instantly, especially not when he wanted to make any disobedient angel beg for redemption. He would try again tomorrow.

He did. Then he tried again the next day and the day after that. Not one word. Nothing, except what he now believed about himself, had changed. He could wait for the other prophets to make their way to him, or he could set about finding them himself. He didn’t have a clue where to start, but if Balthazar had figured out who Castiel was there was the outside chance that he would have an idea on where to start looking for the Righteous Man and the Boy King.

Castiel flipped through his avatars. Obviously, none of the ones based on his vessel that he used in his remonstrations at his brothers. The avatar had to be recognisable enough that his best friend would know it was him, yet far enough from his usual looks that it would take anyone who caught a whiff of the conversation too long to work it that it was him and trace the call back through the elaborate trails. To the casual observer of net traffic, the call should look like one of the lower-ranking officials in Gabriel’s staff talking to the Escarian overseer. Nothing obvious leapt out.

Half a joint of his strongest mix later, Castiel had created the perfect avatar. The only distinguishable feature was the piercing blue eyes. Other than the eyes, the avatar was shorter and smaller than Castiel with long platinum hair and biosculpted features. It wore a suit of the most garish gold filigree threaded through a shiny black fabric, a chrome hand emerging from the right sleeve, and a shining, if lopsided, halo circling its head.

Castiel plugged the jack into the slot behind his left ear, closed his eyes. He slipped his way through protocols in different megacities of the West, setting up false trails from each of them, finally settling on one in the central zone of the Northeast’s Boldown. Hands swiftly waving through the air in front of him, he trawled through the numbers in Vesperien Enterprises’s database until he reached Balthazar’s. He didn’t need to look the number up but doing so added to the persona he had created. It would be suspicious if someone at the level he had chosen knew the direct line of a senior Angel.

At the second prod of the swirling sword and scales insignia, the security protocol around Vesperien Enterprises Escaria put the call through. Balthazar picked up on the third ring, his face puzzled.

“Forgive me, Balthazar, but I needed to speak with you about BaBD.”

“I’m not familiar with that. Please a little more detail if you would…er…Samael”

“It is our programme for disposing of disused sites and un-deployed weaponry that may have been in contact with the Dullahan. I understand from our Archangel of the West that you have knowledge of such things from your extensive studies of the old ways.”

Confusion gave way to perception. His brother had worked out who he was.

“Ah, yes. Now I see. Very well, what exactly is it that you require?”

Images formed in Castiel’s head of long-disused icons of the Righteous Man and the Boy King. He conjured up subtle differences so that they wouldn’t be immediately recognisable to the casual observer, yet distinctive enough that Balthazar would know. Then he wove text around the images:

“Traces. Arms. Vicinity to team, or other possible locations.”

Then he pushed the tableau over the line to Balthazar.

“Hmm. Well, Samael. It’s not that easy to do. You would need to have the right detection equipment and possibly the right…er…pharmaceutical enhancements to see the elemental readings. Might be useful to ensure you have medics in the back-up team before anyone goes in to investigate. These things have a habit of going off when they’re disturbed if they’re not handled in the right way, but if you know what you’re doing a good bruscarae expert can diffuse them.”

“Oh, yes that does sound like it would be sensible. Could you send some details through to us, I’m sure my team leader would be most interested to read it first-hand. It would mean more coming from you, Balthazar. I am indebted, brawd.”

“Will do,” Balthazar said as he reached out to end the call.

Balthazar had come through for him again. At some point, he was going to come to Castiel for payback, but for now, it was good to have someone nominally alongside him, who could access information that it would take Castiel too long to get hold of without being reckless about his location and true identity.

From the carefully worded information, Balthazar had given him, how the first stages of the Cruthadair’s plan would work made sense. Michael, Lucifer, or Raphael would send warriors to capture him, but instead two of those ‘men at arms’ would turn against their masters and work alongside him to free the people of Wēalhaz of the Host. It would be prudent, then, to be a little less careful with the next messages and allow his location to be more traceable. However, depending on how many came after him, there was still the problem of identifying who his two associates would be. Castiel was hoping that his father would give him some sign now that he was acting on the knowledge of his destiny.

***************************************************************************************************

“What are you going to sell me for this time, mother?”

“Och, Fergus. I’m not ‘selling you’, I’m merely pondering the implications of offering your services to the Prophesied Ones.”

Crowley scowled at the flashing blue light running around the top of his office walls.

“Not sure I comprehend the difference. Doesn’t either scenario amount to you getting money and me being stitched up?”

If a light could be said to flicker angrily, then that is exactly what it did.

The AI’s tone changed, “Haven’t you seen that the omens the Coven’s been looking for this last millennium are coming to pass? The time is coming when the Cruthadair’s will can be done.”

Crowley scrubbed a hand across his face. He’d deliberately not become a part of the Coven to avoid this nonsense. A grown man, several hundred year’s old and his mother was treating him like a guileless child. Naively, he had thought when his mother chose not to take another regeneration and instead had insisted that her consciousness be uploaded to an AI programme that things would change, and she would pester him less. That had worked so well! If anything, Rowena now seemed to hover and watch over him almost 24/7.

“Didn’t think the Coven believed that bollocks?

“Look at the Books of the Fàidhe, then tell me that the events foretold by the ancient ones are not happening right now. So, are you going to work with me or not, Fergus?”

Crowley terminated the link with Rowena’s AI and went into ‘do not disturb’ mode. There’d be numerous messages from her when he switched it off, no doubt reminding him that no matter how old he was, he was her son and according to the laws of their kind, he was hers to command until she passed over. He’d deal with the messages later. Crowley made a note to lobby Uriel that the laws of The True North be amended to read such that choosing to be an AI programme rather than regenerating or implanting into another body should be considered being ‘passed over’. When the amendment was enacted, he’d enjoy telling Rowena that she was legally dead and couldn’t boss him around anymore.

He pressed the remote on his desk. Instead of the blank white walls of his office, Crowley was surrounded with images of the mountains with their forests and snow-capped peaks. If he’d had a window and his office faced the right way, it would be the view behind the towering offices and housing districts. The scene always relaxed him and helped him order his thoughts, a reminder of the home in Escaria that he’d left so many centuries ago.

When he found his way into the archives of the Temple of Maaxan and began searching through the writings of its elders, it was nothing to do with thwarting Rowena’s plans. He didn’t find what he’d hoped. As a lawyer in this incarnation, Crowley had learned that doubt could be exploited. There were enough small threads that if spun the right way could add up to what his mother was suggesting. He may not have been a believer in either her ways or those of the Temples, but it would be ill-advised to dismiss their dogmas out of hand.

He was going to have to make a visit. Admittedly, not one he wanted to, but a necessary one, nevertheless. Crowley was going to have to cross the border and visit an old ‘acquaintance’, have a little chat with her face to face. Maybe make Meg an offer that she couldn’t refuse.

If, and only if, what he heard satisfied his curiosity, then Crowley would go along with his mother’s plans – in a way that suited him, of course. He could, for the right incentive, help the Prophets of Crëwr to defeat the Corca Oidce. There had to be something in the deal that could advance the fortunes of a humble lawyer from the west coast of The True North.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean meet and realise they might be chasing the same shadow. Distrusting of his brother, Dean turns to Bobby for some intel.  
> Cas works on more material to poke at his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork of the brothers facing off by the amazing Amberdreams. They captured the feel of the brothers meeting for the first time in six years so well.

“Go away!” Dean yelled for what had to have been the tenth time. Who the fuck was that insistent at this hour of the day? The banging stopped. Dean thought he’d won the argument, then it started up again.

Dean rolled onto his back, slinging an arm over his face to shield his eyes from the light streaming in through his window. Another wonderful sunshiny day in Nua Emboraca. Yippee-ki-yay motherfuckers!

“Get the message, asshat. I said go away!”

“Dean Winchester. By authority of the Archangel of the Northeast and CEO of Imstraer, if you do not open this door in the next thirty seconds, we will use force to enter.”

Dean eyed the window. They weren’t supposed to open – too much of the toxic air from the city would overload the apartment’s filtration system. His did. Dean had made sure of that. The preanas mistake he’d made was not switching on the proximity alarm when he’d returned from the Roadhouse after one too many synthalchohol whiskey chasers with Ash. Without them, he’d lost valuable time and allowed his hangover dulled brain to assume that the person banging down his door was a neighbour or salesperson, not Michael’s goons. Thirty seconds was cutting it tight to make it from the bedroom to the window, open it and make his way far enough away from his apartment not to be in firing range. He’d also wasted several of those precious seconds overthinking this screw-up.

Huffing, he hauled himself off the bed and shuffled over to the door. Completely disregarding his usual ultra-cautious approach to uninvited guests, Dean unbolted and unlocked the door without checking to see who was standing in front of it. If he had, Dean might have stumbled back to bed telling the guest to “Give it your best shot. I’m staying in bed!” Instead, Dean flung the door open.

“What the fuck? Sam?”

Sam fucking Winchester. Biggest pain in the ass brother a man could have and very definitely an uninvited guest. Shit, he’d missed the sasquatch.

Sam didn’t wait to be invited and breezed past Dean into the apartment.

“You gonna shut the door, Dean? And…uh…you know…you really ought to have intruder detection set up. I mean anyone could have been ready to bust down your door and you’d never know.”

“Anyone was,” Dean replied ruefully. He did, however, make a point of locking and bolting the door before setting the proximity alert. “Why you here, Sam? Thought you were done with all the shit. Last we spoke you were determined on staying in the Midwest with your fancy right side of the Host’s tracks life?”

“I was, jerk!”

Sam’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth gaping at his brother’s changed appearance.

“Yeah, yeah had a run-in with the law.” Dean looked down at his cybernetic arm, the most likely cause of Sam’s surprise. “They didn’t take kindly to me sorting out Dad’s unfinished business. Gave me an ultimatum…”

“You took it? Honestly, Dean. You’re a soldier in Michael’s army?”

“His elite personal protection force, the Praell, actually.”

Dean was going to milk the status he had achieved for all it was worth. Sammy had always been the one that was going to amount to something, not Dean. But, for a few years at least, Dean had been pretty close to achieving something. He chose to ignore that the something required him to be the perfect soldier, like their dad had trained him. Dean also ignored that it required him to know most methods of armed and unarmed combat, along with a judicious knowledge of interrogation – actually nix that – torture. Turned out, he had quite the talent for getting people to talk when they didn’t want to.

“Huh, figures,” Sam snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean, bitch?”

“Only that you were always were good at taking orders, Dean.”

Sam flopped down on the sole stool at the kitchenette counter.

Something was off about the way that his brother was favouring his left leg. Dean would probe into that later. More important right now was why he’d turned up unannounced. It was damned suspicious after the way his subconscious had been prodding him to call Sam, to be the bigger man and make up, so that he could find the answer to why Emmanuel had used The Wall.

“Was not. Got booted out in case you hadn’t realised, what with me living in this district and all.” Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t called that for no reason. Its once gentrified tower blocks had, over centuries, reverted back to being a cesspit of poverty and iniquity. “How’d that work out for you, Mr Lawman?”

Embarrassment flushed over Sam’s face and he shifted uneasily in his seat.

“Hah, thought so! What happened, Sammy? Shout at your superiors like you used to shout at dad?”

“Not now, Dean. Can we not do this, please? Can we act like adults and get past all the show and tell crap?”

Yup, something had happened to Sam. Dean guessed it had something to do with his leg and why Sam had turned up unannounced on his doorstep.

“Ok, dude. But you gotta admit, you showing up like this was bound to make me a little curious, right? I’m your big brother, it’s my job.”

“So, get this,” Sam started, his face lighting up like an excited puppy. “I got a big-ticket hunt. I mean seven-figure carbon job. I was researching it…”

“Flying high on Demonex you mean,” Dean interrupted with a sour edge to his voice.

Sam ignored the barb. “I was looking into why Lucifer would put such a high bounty on the head of some random dude producing short films and live streams with ancient backing tracks. I had a friend contact me and make suggestions about where else I could get some information, but the weirdest thing was they told me to contact you. Then when I was following that lead up, I had a cryptic message from an offworld outpost telling me a chat with my brother was long overdue. Long story short, here I am. Got anything that resembles coffee? Please don’t say the mushroom brew though.”

Dean grimaced, “Eww, no way. Can’t stand that stuff. There’s a jar on the window ledge, crappy instant brand, but leagues better than that hippy stuff. Make two while you’re at it.” Dean never functioned well without coffee, a side effect of mostly functioning on only four hours of sleep. With a raging hangover, he was lucky if he could string a sentence together without it. He’d outdone himself holding a conversation with Sam for so long without it crossing his mind.

Sam eased himself off the stool and pottered around the kitchenette making two coffees, while Dean leaned against the wall quietly observing. The angsty young man was most certainly still there, but there was a calm assurance to his brother that Dean had never seen before. He’d filled out more too. Finally growing into a solid sasquatch rather than a gangly beanpole. Nothing was obviously enhanced, unlike him, but you didn’t serve in law enforcement in the Midwest without there being something jacked up. Maybe it was his reflexes. Maybe they’d taken his freakishly high intelligence and given him some cognitive implants that were hidden underneath the long hair. How the hell had he got away with that? Maybe that was a recent regrowth. Somehow Dean couldn’t imagine Sammy with anything other than almost shoulder-length hair.

After the first two sips of coffee, the placebo effect of the caffeine kicked in before the real stimulant could flood his system. Damn, Sam had made a passable cup of coffee out of that sludge.

“Films with ancient music in the background, you say? Huh, what do ya know?”

Sam sat back down on the stool, spinning it around to face Dean.

“You’ve heard of it?”

Brother or not, Dean wasn’t going to simply offer up that kind of information. Sammy was going to have to work for it. How could Dean be sure that this wasn’t a trap? Hell, the kid hadn’t spoken to him in years and now waltzed in here saying that some offworld vigilante had told him to speak with Dean and Sam had upped and left Mirkanawa or wherever he’d been to visit Dean.

“Nah. Sounds weird is all. Anyways, why you? You hunting now? After all the speeches and rows with dad over it?”

“Like I said Dean, long story. One we don’t have time for right now.”

“What’s this we, Sammy?”

Sam’s face fell. He spun the stool a couple of times.

Dean almost laughed. It was like jumping back in time. Any time they’d been in a place that had swivel chairs, Sam had never been able to resist spinning in them, no matter how many times John or Dean had growled at him to stop or threatened that he’d be clearing his own mess up if he made himself vomit. Instead, Dean schooled his face to its most neutral expression.

“I thought it would mean something is all, Dean. You and me together again. Not exactly like old times. I get that. Too much water under the bridge, but this is a huge sum of money. We could maybe even get out of the game altogether, go offworld somewhere cheap but with a cleaner atmosphere, away from…” Sam made the universal sign for the Host.

Dean didn’t have the heart to tell Sam that he had his own gig and that after he’d settled everything, living comfortably elsewhere wasn’t likely to be on the cards. Unless of course, Lucifer was paying more money than Michael to get his hands on the thorn in his side.

Dean downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp. His brain was thankfully now firing on three cylinders. What if this Emmanuel guy and the one Lucifer wanted were one and the same? What if? What if? Dean had a sudden urge to want to contact Bobby. The old curmudgeon had the best nose in the business for sniffing out traps. What Sam had come with had all the hallmarks of something that the Archangels would pull. What if somehow, he and Sam were the targets, not the maker of these recordings and streams. He’d wait until he’d got rid of Sam then make the call. Maybe he’d get Ash to dig the dirt on Sam in the meantime too.

“Sounds like a nice dream, Sam. Playing the real sheet music for a second, ever occur to you that this isn’t what it looks like? Think about that will ya? I’m going to hit the head.”

Before entering the bathroom, Dean stopped in his bedroom to fire a quick message off to Ash with an urgent request for background on Sam Winchester’s life over the last six years.

On his return, Dean was dumbfounded to learn that two can play at the subterfuge game.

Sam had moved to the recliner in front of the holoscreen area, leaning back in the chair with his feet up, arms linked behind his head. He had a grin broader than the Deva Cat plastered over his face.

“Checking up on me? Making sure I’m the real deal? Can’t say I blame…”

Dean raised his arm, silently commanding his weapon to stun mode, and pointed it directly between Sam’s eyes. Love for his brother, hurt at the years of separation, and lingering suspicion all swirled in his gut. Sam’s comment had only served to further heighten the misgiving. “I was doing no such thing. Now if you are Sam, you’ll be fine with leaving without a fuss. If not, well, this shining hunk of chrome ain’t for decoration, if you get my drift?” Dean growled. “Tonight, 9pm, Harvelle’s Roadhouse in the furthest zone of Lotrard Deamhan. Ask for Dr Badass when you get there.” He’d not turn up until Ash had given him the all-clear that it was indeed his brother Sam Winchester and that Sam wasn’t an imminent threat to Dean.

“Ok, Dean. I’ll go.” Sam stood up, careful to telegraph each movement, letting Dean know he was leaving peacefully and posed no threat.

Dean reset all the apartment’s alarms and detection units the second the door slammed behind Sam. He placed his back against the door and slid to the floor, knees bent, and arms wrapped tightly around them. Gods how he needed the man who’d just left to be his younger brother. Dean knew that all the bluster aside, he earnestly hoped that Sam had genuinely come to bury the hatchet and team up against a common foe like they’d done before that final falling out between Sam and John. Bobby. Bobby would have the answer no matter what Ash turned up.

****************************************************************************************************

This time he was going to make it real. For the live stream to the Northeast, everything would be set up in the net as usual – a wonderful gathering of like-minded individuals all in their most enticing avatars, sitting and listening to him drop words of wisdom gathered from the greatest minds across the whole universe, and then the mind-blowing, drug-enhanced, virtual orgy. None of the participants, himself included, would be fake.

Castiel hadn’t indulged himself yet. It wasn’t that there weren’t attractive people in attendance. Almost everyone chose a stunning avatar to participate, some perhaps hiding true features that society would consider less than ideal. It was more an indifference. These events weren’t for his gratification. They were educational. Allowing people to feel emotions, sensations through their bodies. To cast off the shackles of Equalizer. To be alive. Free. His pleasure came in seeing participants' souls light up. However, this one had to be different.

Castiel was also going to have to lay some bait for the Midwest and the South. These also needed him to be himself, not an avatar. It was easy to insert the real Castiel into the recording for the South. He could use snippets of his real voice bringing the call to break free of Raphael’s programming, interspersed with the AI-generated voice, and his usual loop of : “They got methods of keeping you clean. They're gonna rip up your heads, your aspirations to shreds. Another cog in the murder machine.” It was more difficult for the Midwest film to be live streamed with real participants because the only people Castiel wished to harm were those who had deliberately deprived the people of Wēalhaz of their free will. He could possibly insert a near replica of his image and a hint that the recording had taken place in the mountains of the West.

If he put more of himself and a vague hint of his location into the live stream and the films, he would hopefully begin to draw the attention of the two men at arms who should, by now, be looking for him. if Balthazar’s intelligence was correct.

Castiel set to work the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper. In the same way as he loved to hold and read the antique bound copies of the holy books, so Castiel loved the feel of the paper under his hand and the quiet scratch of the pen nib against the page. Running the net was an assault on the senses through the mass of colour, the myriad of adverts, logos and avatars, and the sound. Oftentimes all layered one on top of the other overwhelming you with their constant pushes into your vision. Being virtual, most programmes had nothing physical to grasp onto or to ground you. Sometimes you needed to be grounded. Castiel liked that books and paper were a tangible weight in his hands and real sensation to his fingertips. They grounded him. The bonus was that paper plans could be erased far more effectively than those stored on any server.

“Ceri, music – loud, obnoxious, fast-paced, guitars and drums,” he said the shot of Blacker Lace hitting his system and revving his senses. The house system blasted out something new that had to come from somewhere on the Dreamstate continent – the only place free of the Host’s stranglehold. The sound was too much like static, less like music, with barely indistinguishable howling for vocals. Castiel didn’t know the band, nor did he care to find out.

“Next,” Castiel barked out shaking his head. “That’s more like it!” Castiel’s head bobbed along to the song, Rise Above, a couple of centuries old but the rebellious tone of the punk song urging the listener to rise above the strictures of society’s controls was so relevant. The right choice of background music was essential. Unhelpfully before inspiration struck for any of the messages he was trying to construct, Castiel remembered the perfect song to use for the long overdue poke at Gabriel. So that he didn’t forget it, Castiel tore out a page from his notepad and scribbled down the obscure song’s title.

“More like that, please,” Castiel told the house AI at the end of the song. Another three-chord, three-minute wonder blared out across the room. Castiel put the book aside and began jumping in time to the music, the twitch in his muscles demanding a release of physical energy before his mind could settle on the task at hand. Four songs later, Castiel’s mind was as sharp, running through data at lightning speed, but his body could now sit still long enough to plan the messages and to record what he needed for the South and the Midwest.

After two hours, the effects of the Blacker Lace receded, leaving Castiel running out of steam. The limitations of the human body frustrated him. As a multidimensional being, a lightwave of Crëwr’s intent, his energy rarely depleted. Developing the world for Jimmy Novak’s latest film had taken most of the available energy resources that the vessel had after recording the text for Steve’s incursion into Raphael’s daily brainwashing sessions. Castiel would need to eat and rest to allow the body’s energy levels to be restored.

Castiel had one final action before he could recover. A courtesy to Gabriel. He wanted his brother to pick a side of his own volition. It was unconscionable for Castiel to be a bringer of freedom and free will yet deny that opportunity to the one who had taken care of him in his youth when no-one else bothered with the strange child who was, in their opinion, too obsessed with their father’s creations.

He slipped in through the backdoor of the sanctuary lists that Vesperien curated and guarded so fiercely. He wiped every trace of E Allen or J Novak or S Novak-Allen until no such people had ever existed. No-one under any of those names had ever formally passed through the borders of the West. Emmanuel’s tracks stopped at Comhar. To give further credence to the deceit Castiel was fashioning, there had never been any formal record of Emmanuel crossing between the Northeast and the Midwest. Jimmy’s tracks stopped at Methor. Steve’s tracks stopped at Allwei. None of those locations were legal crossing points. However, if anyone tracking them stopped and thought about it long enough, Castiel believed that they would understand that all signs led to the West, but that sanctuary hadn’t been granted by Gabriel or his corporation. That way, if Gabriel eventually made his choice, and sided with their older brothers, he could do so without reproach.

Of course, any simpleton can see the naivety in Castiel’s actions. But then the holy books never claimed that the Immortal was infallible, merely that the man who walked outside of time loved the peoples of Wēalhaz and was willing to give up everything for them. There was that one other heretical text, the Book of Madron, which translated the words of the Cruthadair slightly, but oh so crucially, differently. Madron claimed that the Immortal would give up everything, not for the whole planet, but exclusively for the Righteous Man. However, Castiel had not read the Book of Madron. If he had would he have continued with his plans? Your answer depends on whether you believe in an inevitable destiny or that a person can change their fate.

****************************************************************************************************

“Yeah, I hear ya, boy.”

“Well? You ever come across anything like it before? Know what those old ass songs signify?”

Bobby scowled at him from the screen. “What if I have?”

“I need to know if it’s a clue to what’s going on. Not got much to work with, and…there’s such a big price on his head, if I don’t bring the guy in…”

“Michael will have your head on a platter,” Bobby finished Dean’s sentence. “Idjit! Since when did money alone blind you to risks? No, don’t answer that. Don’t think I wanna know.”

Bobby pushed his hand under his filthy trucker cap and scratched his head as he gave it a tiny shake.

“So, know anything?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I’m guessing if he uses the same one on a loop every time, it must mean something to the Archangel. I’ll take a look in those archives none of us is supposed to know about and get back to you.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped in relief. “I owe you one…”

“Another one!” Bobby interjected.

“Ok, another one…and er, Bobby, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about Sammy, would you?”

“Lucifer’s pet? The Butcher of East Beltline? One-man unit of destruction that condemned three whole districts in Mór Mears, Mirkanawa for protesting new public gathering sanctions. No, don’t know anything about ex-Captain of the MidWest Public Order Rapid-Response Task Forces, Samuel Winchester,” Bobby scoffed. “You had your head so far up your own ass out there in the Northeast that little hiccup passed you by?”

Well shit. That didn’t sound like his Sammy. That boy was all about people’s rights, justice, fairness. That was why he’d hated John’s job and wanted to do something legitimate to help enforce justice. But Bobby had a point. How in the hell had he missed hearing about something that catastrophic?

“When was that Bobby? Doesn’t sound like Sam?” It sounded more like something Samuel Campbell, their grandfather, would do.”

“Hmm,” Bobby pulled his 'don’t believe everything you see or hear' face. Dean had seen it many times over the years growing up. “Well, that’s the official line. It was your brother’s likeness Dean, sorry. Would have been maybe two years ago…fuck, I am sorry, Dean.” Bobby looked genuinely abashed, knowing he was treading on sensitive ground.

“Yeah. Ok. Makes sense it never got to me in there. Wasn’t like I was conscious and sat on my ass watching newscasts for most of Imstraer’s botched attempt at reconditioning.”

Not being conscious was a barefaced lie. Dean had been aware of everything the doctors in the reconditioning lab had done to tinker with his psyche, erase his memories, and give Michael back his obedient little soldier. The nightmares haunted him most nights unless he passed out in a drink induced stupor. One of the reasons he stopped taking the full dose of Equalizer was that he wanted to remember, to keep his disgust and loathing simmering away until the right time came to do something about what he’d seen as one of Michael’s elite bodyguards.

**************************************************************************************************

“It wasn’t like that, Dean. I’m not the monster you take me for.” Sam couldn’t meet Dean’s gaze.

“So, tell me, Sammy, what was it like?” Dean spat. He was so agitated by the confirmation that what both Bobby and Ash had told him about Sam was true that he could hardly bear to look at his brother. He raised Sam better than that. He wanted to punch something. Not with the chrome, but with his real human hand. Physical pain Dean could deal with. This emotional crap not so much. Dean thought, not for the first time, removing the capacity to feel the pain caused by loved ones and family was one of the few benefits to Michael’s laws requiring everyone living within his territories of the Northeast to take 25mg of Equalizer daily.

“The weapons. They weren’t supposed to take the buildings out like that. They were supposed to give the illusion that they were shaking. Sure, it was designed to scare people. All the models said that people would hide under things in their apartments or head down to the basement shelters, places where we could easily identify the ringleaders of the troubles.

If I had any inkling about what they’d do, I would never have given the order to fire. Never. Most of our communications were down after the buildings collapsed. The ground officers thought it was supposed to go down like that. We couldn’t get the orders out to them quick enough. They began shooting anyone coming out of the buildings. In the press releases and official reports, they covered up that certain squad leaders liked to dope up their teams with a proprietary blend of Motor Oil and Fireballs right before a mission.”

“Making them trigger happy,” Dean added, the muscle in his clenched jaw twitching.

“Right. Although the whole thing was a clusterfuck, going down so far off beam from the original plan, Lucifer liked the outcome. With the East Beltline free, he could give it to Clan Griogair. He’d needed a way to gain their total loyalty. The new plan worked. I was off scot-free as far as MatraWessColt and Lucifer were concerned, no repercussions from them. On a routine trip to a meeting with the heads of MWC’s sales and marketing department over security for travelling senior execs, my car got ambushed. The people saw to it that I got my comeuppance. My left leg was mangled beyond repair. Got a new one out of the vat rather than go chrome. The nanites and the Syncompenol did a good job, but it’s not exactly good as new” Sam rubbed at his left hip. “A wounded hero wasn’t exactly the right fit for who Lucifer wanted to head up his task force, or possibly even someday become his Law Enforcement Chief for the whole territory, so…yeah, I got side-lined with a bounty hunter’s licence as compensation. The rest of the story is irrelevant right up to the point that Lucifer and Michael both offer insane amounts of money to bring in a recorded and live stream filmmaker who appears to be ridiculing the key tenets of how they rule the Midwest and Northeast respectively. And, they both want him alive.”

The knots in Dean’s stomach unwound. His jaw stayed tight. He didn’t trust himself to say anything until Sam dived into the details of the case. Ash had told him that Sam had been pegged as an overachiever from the get-go in the law enforcement agencies. He’d been the youngest Task Force Captain ever in the Midwest. Until the Mór Mears incident, among the people in the know, Sam had been widely tipped to end up as one of Lucifer’s right-hand men. From the Sammy Dean remembered, he figured that Sam had been foolish enough to see his rapid rise up the ranks as an opportunity to provide a balancing more humane view to the others that counselled the Archangel of the Midwest. Damn it, Sammy! As much as he tried, Dean couldn’t really stay mad at his baby brother.

“You’re convinced it’s the same guy? Any proof? Why’s he leaving Raphael and Gabriel alone?”

Sam shrugged, taking a gulp of the cheap fake beer. “A hunch, I guess?”

“We’re gonna throw our lot in on following up what could be two guys on a hunch?”

“Any better ideas? Wonderboy hasn’t turned up anything that says otherwise.”

Ash bristled at the insult to his skills. “Hey, there’s a few traces running. You can do better?”

“Next problem,” Dean said wanting to diffuse the spat before it started to draw attention to them. The Roadhouse was crowded. Usually, it was a safe place to discuss things because everyone was discussing similar situations, all of them in the cracks of the grey between law enforcement and vigilante justice. Occasionally though some moron would break the unspoken code and meddle where they weren’t invited if they saw enough carbons in it. “If it is one guy. We got both Michael and Lucifer wanting him alive. Who gets priority?”

“I’ve thought about that. It’s not foolproof, but what if we turned him over to Raphael or Gabriel – neutral territory? Let them decide which of their brothers to give him to.”

Dean guffawed. That was the plan?

“My best guess,” Ash began hesitantly, “he/they are already holed up somewhere in the West. Wouldn’t you? I’m not seeing any evidence that the streams are being routed from offworld. I suppose the source could be outside the Combined Territories, the True North’s possible. But I’d stake two rounds on Gabriel already having granted them sanctuary, intentionally or by default. If you’re going with that plan, then you’re going to have to get Emmanuel/Jimmy into the South.”

Dean rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. Did nobody but him see the real issue here? “West, South, True North, fucking Moondor, or Cogahd. Makes no odds where the mark’s hiding out. What is going to make the difference to both of us surviving and being paid or being ganked ourselves is not being seen to belittle either of the Archangels. Tell me how giving the dude to Raphael doesn’t snub either of the others?”

Before Sam could answer, Ash’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his nose began bleeding, and his body went limp in his seat.

Dean and Sam sat dumbfounded, waiting to see what happened next – once they’d checked that he was breathing.

When he finally came around, Ash was ghostly pale. “The motherfuckers! That’s some protection programme – nothing’s ever kicked my ass like that, not since…oh, let me see…see since I first learnt to run the net. Beer me, Dean-o.”

Dean’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “Beer me? Honestly, Ash? So, what’d you find before you got iced?”

“Beer? The real stuff, please. At least a hit of Smash?”

“No info, no beer.”

Ash pouted, running his hand through his mullet. “Think you owe me more than one beer. Shame I didn’t put a bet on me being right. Can’t find anything concrete, but I would stake this sweet style and my reputation on your dude being holed up in the West. Could be that he’s not under Gabriel’s protection – I couldn’t confirm that before…well, you know…”

Sam ordered four more bottles, handing off two to Ash, despite Dean’s joking come back that Ash didn’t have a reputation and certainly didn’t deserve anything for getting his butt handed to him by corporate security.

“Ok, Sammy…”

“It’s Sam!”

Touchy, touchy. Still got a hint of the teenage tantrums there bro, Dean thought. “Right, yeah…ok Sam, let’s go for a drive. No point going through any of the main checkpoints if the douche isn’t on the sanctuary lists. That means nearest likely border with the West is Maithspás.” Then, before Sam could reply, Dean added, “we’ll take my car.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which we meet Gabriel and Meg.

The blaring sound jolted Castiel. Not the best timing as he had a hive open, harvesting honeycombs. Thankfully, the bees were used to the strange creature and buzzed angrily around him but didn’t move to sting him. Good job too seeing as he was barefoot, wearing only a thin linen tunic and pants in the comfortable heat of his apiary.

It was way too soon for his expected visitors. So, who the fuck had triggered the proximity alarms? Once upon a time, it would have been possible that some random hiker had stumbled into the vicinity of the silo after it had fallen into disuse. Not now. No-one went on pleasure walks in the mountains anymore.

Sighing, Castiel closed the hive and reluctantly left his haven. In the dimly lit corridor outside, he logged into the bunker’s security system, pulling up images of the perimeter in front of him as he made his way back to the living quarters. The picture confirmed his suspicions. This wasn’t a random visitor. Nor was it a sneak approach. Only one person would arrive so blatantly in a helicopter, his brother – Gabriel. Damnit, after all his careful attempts to cover his tracks in the West’s official systems, the Archangel showed up at his door.

He’d play his part. Castiel would wait until Gabriel knocked on the door before dropping any of the building’s defences. It was far easier to humour the Archangel of the West, let him think he was the one in control of things. Somehow Gabriel always ended up getting his own way in the end. Castiel watched Gabriel jump out of the chopper and without a glance at his surroundings, bound up to the concealed entrance. Gabriel found the intercom and leant on it until Castiel came to open the door and usher the Archangel of the West inside.

“Little bro, little bro! What have you been up to?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Gabriel,” Castiel replied steadily holding his brother’s gaze.

“Yesterday I had 1765 people on my sanctuary lists. Today I have 1759, but only 3 confirmed deaths. So, what happened to the other 3 who inexplicably disappeared overnight?”

Keeping a straight face, Castiel asked, “Have you tried asking any of the lower angels or humans that work for you?”

Gabriel took a step closer, wagging his finger at Castiel.

Dammit, he hadn’t realised that his aliases had found their way onto Gabriel’s lists. Castiel’s resolve was beginning to crumble, he had enough determination left to stay silent and not move out of his brother’s path, although his self-preservation instinct told him to run – fast.

“Cassie, Cassie, Cassie. Give it up. We both know which names disappeared and who made them vanish. So, tell me what you’re up to, or do I have to pay your bestest friend a visit in Escaria? Have a friendly chat with Balthazar about his conversations with a non-existent employee of mine – Samael?” Gabriel’s tone changed from teasing big brother to pissed off Archangel. “Getting any recall yet? Or have all the drugs finally addled what’s left of this vessel’s brain and screwed up the links with your stack?”

Castiel turned and walked away towards the kitchen.

Gabriel grabbed his shoulder, “Oh no you don’t. You talk to me. Tell me what the fuck you’re up to, right now.”

“We need whiskey then. Or I guess I need whiskey.”

“Got any honey to sweeten it up?”

Castiel smiled. Back to the jovial big brother again, who had an insanely sweet tooth yet miraculously never put on weight.

“You think because I keep bees, I have honey to give you?” Castiel wasn’t as good as Gabriel at getting the correct edge to his voice. He’d tried for light-hearted sarcasm, but it came out sounding more cantankerous. “Come on, let’s see what else sweet I’ve got buried away in the pantry for when ‘unexpected special guests’ arrive.”

Without waiting for the answer, Castiel began the long trek through the grey corridors of the ‘office’ part of the silo, the antiquated fluorescent lights humming and flickering in a vain effort to light the way. A few twists and turns later, he turned off to the left towards the living quarters and into the kitchen.

“Grab two glasses will you. Top of the fourth cupboard along the back wall.”

Castiel pushed a sliding door open on the only bare wall, revealing a sparsely stocked pantry. Sitting in pride of place were several jars of honey and a tin in the shape of a west highland terrier, which contained a batch of ‘brownies’ he’d made, with the last of his simulated chocolate, two days before. He squinted at the labels on the jars, “Not quite ready for consumption yet.”

“Good thing I brought my own,” Gabriel grumbled pulling candy from his jacket pocket, unwrapping it, and popping it into his mouth before dropping the wrapper to the floor.

Castiel scowled as he reached to the highest shelf he could get to without a set of steps and took down the whiskey and a bottle of tequila for good measure. Both were real, not simulated alcohol. Unable to resist, he cleared up after Gabriel, depositing the candy wrapper in the trash recycler unit.

Castiel didn’t speak as he poured two very generous shots and carried them through to the old mess room. He sat at one of the tables, placing Gabriel’s glass on the other side of the table opposite himself and gestured at his brother to sit down.

For ten minutes Castiel ignored Gabriel, alternating between sipping on the liquor or swirling it around the glass.

Gabriel fidgeted; silence was never his thing. “Ok, enough with the silent treatment,” Gabriel blurted out. “You know you can’t hold out against me forever. You might as well spill now before I resort to some of the old tricks, I know will get you talking. These aren’t idle threats, you’ve taken your aliases out of my protection, been pulling Balthazar into whatever game you’ve got going on, I’d rather whatever it is you’re up to didn’t screw the good thing I got going on in An Spiorat or ruin Vesperien’s Erpachan operations.”

“Ceri, play ‘What I’ve Done’,” Castiel asked the silo’s AI system. The kitchen filled with the song’s lyrics about sitting back and allowing the destruction of the world.

*****************************************************************************************************

“Fucking hell, Sam, can’t you leave that shit alone for more than half an hour at a time?”

Dean wouldn’t bitch at his brother’s addiction to running the net, except Sam had the visuals up in front of him, not in his head. The display was distracting Dean. It was hard enough driving with all the kamikaze unmaintained auto-drive systems on the freeways, without the flickering images from Sam’s feeds in the periphery of his vision.

“Pays to read up on the rumours circulating offworld. Get to know far more about what’s going on down here by what the media are telling Moondor and Cogahd. Come on, Dean, even Dad kept up with that!”

It was true, John Winchester had paid attention to the offworld versions of Wēalhaz news. Believing what he read, because it was so outrageous that it had to be something the Archangel Raphael had cooked up, was what had gotten him killed. According to Dean’s version of events, if John hadn’t gone off half-cocked and wound up on the wrong end of a mega dose of a compound of RPM, Foolkiller, and Neocorticine, Dean would never have tried tracking down the son of a bitch that had invented the lethal cocktail of drugs. If Dean hadn’t been forced into seeking vengeance, he’d never have ended up at the beck and call of the Archangel of the Northeast. Dean had never bothered after that, not while in Michael’s employ nor as a bounty hunter.

“Much good it did him. Now either view that shit in your head or shut it off while I’m driving. Bitch!”

“Jerk! Actually, found something you might be interested in?”

“A free strip-joint with…” Dean would so be on board with that, although for safety’s sake he’d probably need to pull off the freeway.

“No, Dean. Interested in from a professional point of view,” Sam sighed, massaging his temple.

Dean’s face fell for a second. Then he reminded himself of the pay-out at the end of this job, and his face brightened again.

“So, get this,” Sam continued, “Looks like Max and Alicia got a contract from Raphael for a Steve who has been inserting subliminal flashes of alternate words into the daily programming broadcasts down South. Claims the words are taken from some song that’s two to three hundred years old. Alicia’s asking for help from anyone with contacts in media or archaic forms of internal terrorism to get more information.”

Ok, so that did sound interesting. “You’re thinking that if Emmanuel and Jimmy are the same guy, then he might also be this Steve as well?”

“It’s plausible, right?”

“Ok, hold onto your lunch, Sammy boy. I’m heading straight for the border, we got ourselves one devious motherfucker to bring in.” Dean was always lead-footed on the accelerator but now he had the pedal jammed into the floor, squeezing every ounce of speed out of the Impala. They were four hours away from the crossing point. Dean knew he could turn that into three, two and a half if they didn’t stop for a comfort break.

“He could be outside the Combined Territories, Dean. Or we could be on completely the wrong track and it’s three separate people.”

“No Samantha. It’s one douche with an axe to grind about the way the Host have taken control of Wēalhaz. I’ll stake Ash’s reputation on it.”

Sam fell for it. “Thought you said he didn’t have a reputation.”

“So,” Dean chuckled, “if I’m wrong, which I’m not by the way, then I won’t be left with egg on my face, will I?”

Sam’s face suggested that he thought Dean had lost the plot, but it wasn’t worth the bother to rise to the bait any more than he already had. Spoilsport!

***************************************************************************************************

Sam needed a hit. Yeah, so he’d promised Dean he wouldn’t, but he was drained from travelling so much. The flight spent scrunched up in the cheapest pod on the shuttle from Choyotha to Nua Emboraca, then the hair-raising drive to Maithspás and the…uh…accident with his bad leg giving way, dropped coffees, and a lost shoe had them holed up in a motel fifteen miles east of the border crossing. Sam was convinced there was something everyone who had helped them so far had missed. A clue that would confirm the one in three theory and, whoever the mark was, that they were within the borders of the Combined Territories. It was a long shot but there was a prodding at the back of his mind that he couldn’t ignore.

He pulled his coat tighter around him. It concealed the mini arsenal he always carried with him when he had to go out in unfamiliar places. Such precautions were even more necessary when you were heading into the outermost zones of a city. Nowhere except the executive high-rises with their corporate security was safe anymore, but the further out you went into the zones and their lowtech shanty towns where the power was syphoned off the mains with crocodile clips and the water had to be boiled before you did anything with it, the greater the likelihood that someone would see you as fair game, because you were a stranger. Shoot first, don’t bother asking questions later, was the rule.

It was a gamble, that whatever he bought wasn’t cut with something toxic or that it would be potent enough to set him zipping through the net. The two things Sam was sure of were that it would be easy to find someone hawking Demonex or their own knockoff copy and that there would be eyes on him from the moment he set foot on the Downwinds side of the sprawl until he left to return to the marginally safer midzone and the motel. What Sam hadn’t bet on was that one of those pairs of eyes would be friendly.

Sam wasn’t reckless enough to do a crossroads deal. Instead, he quickly located a dive bar called Afterlife that looked like it would allow dealers to operate inside. Knowing he reeked of lawman, Sam decided he should sit at the bar for a couple of drinks before heading to the restrooms. Go too soon and the hackles would be up, then he’d have the devil’s own time trying to purchase the Demonex. The bartender had no sooner placed Sam’s second beer on the bar than a petite blonde hopped up on the stool beside him, shouting at the bartender for a beer.

“Disability stall. Second door on the left after the restroom sign.”

“Excuse me?”

“The dirtbags you’re looking for. That’s where they do business.”

Sam’s cop instincts kicked in despite himself. He swiftly assessed the way that the woman spoke, her expression, the position of her eyes, unfortunately, the light was too dim to check pupil dilation, and lastly, Sam checked the way that she held herself. Nothing seemed off.

“And what business might that be?”

“Ok look, buddy, we can play this game all night or you can get with the programme now,” she snarled. “I’m here to help.”

“What’s your cut?” Simply because the woman didn’t give off hinky vibes, didn’t mean Sam should throw caution to the wind.

The blonde chuckled. “Believe me, I’m not taking a cut of any deal you do with them, I’m getting paid by someone who can afford way more than some lowlife drug dealer in the Downwinds of Maithspás. Let’s leave it at, there is a certain party who is heavily invested in you succeeding in your mission, and they’re the one who pays my wages for the gig.”

“Do I look like a need a bodyguard?” Sam was irritated by the woman’s cockiness. However, he wouldn’t put it past Lucifer to have someone tail him.

The blonde took a swig of beer, then wiped her sleeve across her lips to get rid of any stray foam. She looked Sam up and down twice.

“Looks like you can handle yourself from where I’m sitting,” she replied with a wink. “Still, doesn’t change the fact that I’m being paid to watch over you until you complete what your heading next-door to do.” She lowered her voice until it was barely above a whisper, “and by next door, I don’t mean using the washroom.”

Understanding that he wasn’t going to get rid of her without causing a scene, Sam caved, “Tag along if you want, then – but stay out of my sight.”

“I’m Meg, by the way,” the woman called back over her shoulder as she headed towards the restroom area.

Sam took his time finishing his drink. As instructed by Meg, he made straight for the disability stall. The door was opened before he had raised his hand to knock. He was ushered into the tiny room, barely big enough for the three men without adding another as large as Sam.

“What’cha looking for? Got uppers, downers, dancers, fly-throughs. You need it. We got it.” Gold teeth, the incisors filed to resemble fangs, gleamed at Sam as the head douchebag sneered at him.

“Don’t look like you belong here – lawman,” one of the other’s added his lip curling up in disdain.

Sam missed the final member of the trio moving behind him until he felt chrome digits grip the back of his neck and another too firm grip yank his right arm behind his back. It happened too fast for him to stop it. His cunning plan to seem like a junkie jonesing for a fix hadn’t been so cunning after all.

Gold teeth stood up and used the business end of his ArasaKa shotgun to open Sam’s coat, revealing the concealed weapons.

“Looks like you were right, Morressey. We got ourselves one of those overpaid, thinks they’re oh so clever, pretty boys from Vice. Too bad he won’t be around long enough to call it in.”

“What if he’s got back-up out there already, Boss?”

The bossman leered at Sam, his fetid breath making Sam want to gag but he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. “Then we’ll have to find a way of shutting him up while we do this nice and slow.

Sam struggled against the hold on him. He got a swift kick to his left leg for his trouble. As he yelled in pain, Morressey stuffed a wad of fabric into his mouth. With each pointless struggle against the strength of the cybernetic arm, the grip on his neck tightened. Didn’t stop Sam trying to work his left hand to the back-up concealed knife and old standard police issue MWC pistol, debating which gave him the best chance of survival against the three on the off chance they seriously thought he would have back-up. Because Meg didn’t count, did she? She wasn’t really being paid to lookout for him because who the hell would do that for a bounty hunter?

Apparently, Meg did count. Sam was mid-debate and losing oxygen when the door was yanked open.

“Didn’t realise this was the men’s pick-up room. What kinky shit are you guys up to? Can anyone join in? Oops, my bad.”

A shot rang out and the hand around his neck loosened. Another shot rang out before Sam could get to his feet. He stumbled forward into gold teeth knocking him back against the toilet, while Sam flailed for some purchase on the handrail. He missed. Unable to stop himself, Sam tripped over Morressy’s body and tumbled half to the floor and half over the dead dealer’s body.

He’d been expecting a final shot from Meg. Instead, he felt the splatters of blood on his face and heard the gurgling of a man bleeding out. That was the point when Sam’s stomach gave out and he spewed its contents over the floor. To add insult to injury, Meg tapped him on the shoulder holding out a couple of paper towels and offering a hand to help him stand up.

“No, don’t bother thanking me, Moose! Just doing my job.”

Fuck. In all that screwed-up deal, he’d ended up without the Demonex, covered in blood and puke, in the debt of a mercenary paid by an unknown ‘friend’, and to cap it all he’d hurt his bad hip. Sam tried as best he could to wipe off some of the crap from his clothing. It was pretty much a lost cause, but at least the traces and smell of vomit added to the ‘drunk loser’ cover he had been going for.

“Help me get this piece of shit off the can and flush the evidence. It’s all cut with too much fluff to be of use to anyone.”

It was the right thing to do, not let the drugs get onto the market. This wasn’t the sort of place that would call the cops to investigate – the bodies would probably end up in a heating system or incinerator somewhere close by. But damn it, he’d needed that hit.

The eery feeling that Meg knew way too much about him continued when after they’d flushed all the drugs, she handed him a baggie from her pocket. “If you need a little something to fly through the net – take this. It’s the real deal – pure, high quality Demonex.”

Sam went to stalk out of the washroom but ended up in an ignominious limp as his left leg, hurting like a bitch, had seized up. Another piece of realism for the pathetic drunk. Falling in step beside him, Meg wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him.

“There’s a quiet alleyway a couple of blocks away between two thrift stores. Safer than here or you stumbling back to the mid-zones like this. I’ll stay while you do whatever you need online. You know I’m good for it. I could have dropped your ass several times over already tonight if I wasn’t on your side, remember?”

Sam let Meg lead the way to the alley. He slumped down against the wall on the cleanest and driest patch of the alley he could find, then swallowed two of the pills dry. The familiar feeling flooded Sam’s system, the outside world faded away. Meg was sitting quietly beside him keeping guard. There was the possibility that she’d up and leave or worse that she’d turn on Sam, but his cop’s intuition told him that the odds were more in his favour than against if she was being paid to make sure he captured the target, so he allowed the Demonex to do its work, scanning for Jimmy’s videos again, wanting to capture the refrain that appeared in each one of them:

“ _Concrete shoes, cyanide, TNT_

_(Done dirt cheap)_

_Neck ties, contracts, high voltage_

_(Done dirt cheap)_

_Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap_

_Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap_

_Dirty deeds, do anything you want me to_

_Done dirt cheap”_

Sam committed the words to memory, alongside those from the songs Dean and Alicia had given him. Dean was correct the clue was in the lyrics – the key to who this man stirring up the four – no, not the four! So far, no-one had hinted that Gabriel and the West had been targeted.

Meg insisted that she accompany him back to the mid-zones. Playing the part of a courting couple, they wound their hands around each other, the additional support from Meg enabling Sam to walk without a noticeable limp. Once they were only a short walk from the hotel, Meg slipped away. Alone again, Sam unconsciously rubbed at his hip. It shouldn’t have hurt so badly from falling on it, but a strange side effect of the Demonex was the way it increased the pain in his hip as if the surgery had only taken place a couple of days before and he’d not been given any Speedheal. Also, much to his annoyance, the nanites in his system seemed to end up in freefall as much as Sam when he was on the net runner’s helper, not finishing whatever regenerative task they were working in until after the drug was out of Sam’s system. After the tussle with the gang, Sam would need the nanites to deal with the bruising from the fall, until then he’d not easily be able to carry his full weight on the left.

However, what the Demonex did allow Sam to do was rummage around in his memory banks at lightning speed, both those left in his brain and those on the chip that was never far from him. There was more hidden in the lyrics than the snippets that had been used. If he could get the lyrics for all three songs, he might see what they’d missed so far. The lyrics of the song Jimmy used for the Midwest were familiar. A band that John…no Dean, was into when Sam was a kid. Typically, like those from the messages to the Archangels of the Northeast and the South, the song was a couple of centuries old.

Sam began quietly singing the rest of the Memory of Chaos song to himself as he limped back to the motel, “Dirty Deeds” was appropriate for how Lucifer ran the Midwest and MWC, although as Sam knew first-hand, they weren’t done dirt cheap.

That thought reminded him of one of his own favourite songs, “A Nation Sleeps”. While the song did capture the way that the citizens of the Combined Territories of Kapron were determined to stay oblivious to what was going on around them, the angry despondency of the lyrics didn’t sit well with Sam. He didn’t subscribe to the doom and gloom outlook that the Host were nothing but bad news, although he couldn’t say where they were doing real good for the planet, but the idea that nothing could save Wēalhaz – no that could not be true. But who could save it? If you’d asked, Sam would never have guessed that he was one of the planet’s saviours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which:  
> \- Sam and Dean start their journey  
> \- Crowley realises he needs to play a more hands-on role  
> \- Meg finds the identities of the Boy King & the Righteous Man for Castiel

“So, you let this chick stand guard while you…urghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Fucking hell, Sam. Do you always think with your dick? How fucking idiotic can you be? Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to fuck the people you’re working with! You seriously trust her? She’s so obviously not a rogue medevac. Merc more like. You didn’t think that a random merc hanging out in the Downwinds ready to fight off gang members attacking some druggie looking for their next hit was strange? Especially when they did it for free?”

Sam had the grace to look ashamed. Even though he hadn’t been thinking with his lower brain, there was no point telling Dean that. All he could offer was that there was something about Meg that…well, she didn’t give off vibes that she was a danger to him, so he’d accepted her offer. Not the smartest move, but it had panned out. He was also feeling guilty that they’d not crossed into the West the day before to start with because of his little accident. It had started out as nothing more than him insisting that they get the fancy coffee from the kiosk not the cheap drive thru. Unfortunately for Sam, the kiosk had a ridiculously long line and on his way back to the Impala he’d take a tumble courtesy of his dodgy leg and had to go buy the coffee again. The coffee hadn’t even been worth putting them behind even Dean’s fallback schedule, and then his great desire to use Demonex to find out about the songs had totally kiboshed the idea of crossing that night.

Dean pulled at his hair, sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth. “You agreed - no drugs, Sam. What part of no Demonex was deliberately heading into the shittiest zones of Maithspás on your own to get a hit?”

“You’d have offered to come with?” Sam snarked, sitting on the bed and raking a hand through his unusually ratty hair. “I got the answer, though didn’t I? The guy has to be in the West. There’s not been one attack on Gabriel’s regime yet. You have to admit that the songs match the key traits of each territory well enough.”

Dean fiddled with the articulated chrome knuckles of his right hand. As he was sitting at the room’s small table, he was considering stripping and cleaning the weaponised part of his arm. It didn’t need attention. Doing the maintenance was his way of stopping himself from decking the oversized hirvi for putting himself in such danger.

“We going over the border today?”

Dean looked up incredulously. “No, bitch, we’re going to take a leisurely drive back across the country to Worwitchton and request a meeting with the four Archangels in person. Of course, we’re going over the border! The question is where to? It’s not like the West is a small place.”

Sam pushed up from the bed and walked over to put the kettle on the room’s single insta-burner. “Well, if it was me, I’d stay well away from populated areas, especially away from Vesperien’s main locations.”

“Yeah, but that hardly narrows it down. Get a map up will ya?”

Huffing and blowing his bangs out of his eyes, Sam conjured up a large-scale map of the West. Huge chunks of it were desert or mountainous, other areas not yet habitable again despite the Host’s promises that they could reverse the damage humanity had done to Wēalhaz. Only a few megacities remained, mostly on the coast and internal borders, but there were plenty of smaller towns dotted across the interior.

“Fuck! How do we narrow this down?” Dean gestured at the map. “So, it won’t be the coast. I wouldn’t hug the border with either Lucifer or Raphael’s territories if it was me.”

“Let me see if I can overlay the map with places where there’s no signal capability, no net, no nothing. If he’s broadcasting from where he’s holed up, he can’t be in any dead zone.”

Dean nodded his agreement.

“Dean, can you speak with Bobby? He talks to you, right? Ask him if there’s anything in the lore that might help – places people hid out during the wars, the burning, or the plagues.”

Dean pursed his lips. Since when did he take orders from his younger brother? He shrugged it off. Sam was probably right; Bobby would know that stuff and find it easier than either of them. An old shelter of some kind could be the place to hide out. He shoved Sam out of the way and poured the hot water into two cracked mugs that he knew he’d already rinsed out but looked no cleaner than before. They looked so unsanitary, he was reluctant to use them, but it was that or synthalcohol straight from the bottle. If they were heading over the border, he couldn’t be found to have that in his bloodstream, so he’d risk overtaxing his system with a few germs instead. Hopefully, the hot water would kill enough to make the poor excuse for instant coffee he was making harmless and the nanites in his bloodstream would see to the rest.

Dean left Sam to the map and sat on the hood of his beloved Impala, with his coffee, while he spoke to Bobby.

“So, get this,” Sam said the second that Dean pushed the motel room door open, “the West is littered with old safe houses and weapons storage depots from the time before - like three-hundred-year-old places. But they were some of the first places in what’s now the Combined Territories that had connectivity. If it was me, I’d set up shop in one of those. They should be in secret locations and secure…well would have been secure, but like at a really high level, maybe better than what most of us have now…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Dean interrupted. “Slow down and take a breath, Sam. You’re thirty, not twelve.”

Dean received trademarked bitch face no. 4. Water off a duck’s back. Sam had been pulling that face at Dean since he was in diapers. Throwing his brother a bone, he added less harshly, “Matches what Bobby told me. Thinks the most likely states are Nadrusa and Crebia. He is gonna send me what locations he can find. Any obvious dead zones in those two states?”

Dean wasn’t really interested in what Sam had to say, it was a ruse to keep Sam talking while Dean worked on his plan to keep better tabs on him so he couldn’t get himself jacked up on anything without Dean having the opportunity to stop him. He also needed a plan for how to get them across the border while sending the right signals to their respective clients, and without incurring the immediate suspicion of Vesperien and the West’s Archangel.

“Did you ever bother with the geography of the Combined Territories, Dean? There’s gotta be multiple dead zones in these two places…hey what if…what if because of all the secret ex-federal government shit, Jimmy could be living in one of those zones? Those organizations used different networks to the rest of us, right?”

“Great! How does that help us narrow down his location?”

Sam shot Dean a look that asked whether Dean really was that stupid, or did he like to play dumb.

“For the less nerdy and intelligent among us, spell it out, dude.”

“It means that if Bobby’s data on the old locations hits a so-called modern dead zone, then wouldn’t you choose one of those places to hide out, off the grid?”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Knew that all along. Just testing, Sammy. Just testing.” Dean placed his mug in the sink, his good hand itching to get a hold on a bottle of something cold and brain cell numbing. Bobby better come through with the goods quickly, or they’d be stuck in this bumfuck hick town for another day until Dean’s blood was clear of all stimulants. Not that he’d let him drive Baby, but Dean would stake all his upcoming bounty on Sam not being legal to drive or cross the border yet.

*********************************************************************************************************

Crowley watched with fascination at the feed Meg had sent him. It was most interesting. From what he’d read in the sacred texts and the Coven’s top-secret archives, he had expected the Boy King to be a pompous over-educated cretin, maybe even a vat-born child of one of the super-rich corporates that owned their own company. Street-scum with a habit hadn’t occurred to him at all. The brother was…interesting. Clearly, once an expendable army jarhead, now using his military enhancements to…to do what? Protect little brother? Nah, couldn’t be that simple, could it? But it had to be because no way was that squirrel part two of the long-awaited trio. If he was like any other enlisted jerk, he’d have a trail of sordid deeds several miles long, so couldn’t be considered righteous. Add to that, not one text he’d been able to lay his hands on had given the tiniest hint that the saviours of Wēalhaz had ever known each other before they joined forces to save the world.

Crowley was resigned to the fact that he would have to enlist another ‘friend’ to help him find the Righteous Man. Meg needed to focus on the Boy King and the Immortal. Somehow, Crowley would ensure all three ended up where they were supposed to be – in Crowley’s debt.

He crafted a message for Meg:

Help them get to the Immortal. Safe passage North assured – for all. Avoid R’s programme at all costs. Mustn’t give the game away. Balar.

Crowley encoded the message and downloaded it onto a HellHound chip to avoid any inadvertent hacking of the data. Buried deep within the ruse of a lover’s care package, he sent it on the next shuttle from the west of the True North to Meg’s place in Ōrga Giata.

“Fergus, trying to bypass me again, are you?”

Crowley sighed audibly.

“No mother.” How the hell had she got past his elaborate ‘do not disturb’ signal? He was going to have to get one of his minions to take a look at the capability of Rowena’s AI and either strengthen his own defences or, better still, seriously limit her programme’s capabilities and adaptability.

“Hmm, well it looks like it to me. I believe you may have discovered the Boy King and the Righteous Man. Well done! Now I hope you weren’t going to keep all this from me, were you? After all, without me where would you be?”

Crowley refrained from answering that question. Nothing good would come from it. Instead, he changed tack asking, “Why is the Coven so invested in this? Not like you believe in Maaxan or Crëwr?”

If it was possible for the atmosphere in a room to change because he’d pissed off a non-corporeal being, then the air around Crowley suddenly became colder and more foreboding – not that he was alarmed at all, no not at all.

“Balance, child, balance. The Craft is about balance and without those three morons doing what has been foretold, then Wēalhaz will continue to spin on out of balance, and that is not good for any of us – you included, Fergus. You included.”

“What,” Crowley began cautiously trying to placate the AI programme, “is it that you need from me then? I’m helping, aren’t I? Meg’s on the ground watching over the boys do their thing, and trying to locate the Immortal…”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? The Immortal is one of them – the Host, an Angel. One Gabriel cares enough about to give sanctuary to. You need to be involved, Fergus. Not watching from the bloody side-lines. Get in the middle of things.”

Easier said than done without jeopardising everything he’d worked so hard to create. Cheerleading and being ready to swoop in at the crucial moment when he had the most leverage for his own gains was more his style than offering to get involved upfront.

“If…you…don't…help…out…If…you…don’t…make…things…happen…the…way…they…are…written…you’ll…have…no…bloody…business…left…if the…Corca Oidce…remain…unchecked. Understand me?” Rowena spoke slowly, venom dripping from each syllable.

Crowley got the message alright. “Yes, Mother. I’ll play my part like a good boy.” What bothered him was what happened after the three saviours had played their part. Nothing in the sacred texts had indicated that there was a happily ever after. His mother’s love for power was greater than his own. Her determination that balance be restored didn’t sound like Rowena, not one bit. Thankfully, Crowley had no compunction about being ready to double-cross her if he needed to, so long as he came out on top in the end.

*****************************************************************************************************

The mountains turned into the flat plains that stretched all the way to the border and over into the Midwest. Castiel bitterly regretted allowing Gabriel to deploy two of his personal protection squad to act as back-up. He was, however, relieved to have secured the concession that the two clones would travel in another vehicle. It was refreshing to be outside, away from the bunker, even if the never-ending prairie made an uninteresting tableau.

The heads-up display from the Dodge Reithe GPS suggested that the border with the Midwest was ninety minutes away if he maintained this constant legal speed. It also informed him, in its patronising, nasal tone that the route hade several known speed traps, advising that it would be in Castiel’s interest to switch to the truck’s auto-drive mode.

Screw that idea. The whole point of him being out and about was to attract some attention. Ok, so speeding wasn’t the attention he was looking to attract, nor was it something he felt inclined to do. There was no advantage in arriving early. He would arrive at his destination, exactly when he planned not a moment too soon, nor a moment too late. What got Castiel’s goat was another entity insisting that he mindlessly obey – for his own good. That had never ever been Crëwr’s intention for any of his creations, as far as Castiel understood his father’s intents. Castiel would use auto-drive only if it suited him. For now, it didn’t.

“Locate Meg.”

“Please repeat your request.”

Castiel groaned the truck’s system wasn’t as sophisticated as Ceri. He didn’t use it much, so had never bothered upgrading it from the outdated factory standard.

“Masters, Megan. Please bring up her current coordinates.”

“Megan Masters is not in any known location in the West.”

Pulling teeth would be less painful than communicating with this programme.

“Can you locate her at all?”

The system went quiet. With no music playing, the only sound was the rumble of the tires on the potholed asphalt.

“No location possible at this time,” it eventually informed him.

Castiel was about to bang his head on the steering wheel. A small part of him wished he’d been less cautious and not worried about being stopped on suspicion of a DUI. Afterall as part of the Host, he had ways of dealing with the cybernetic traffic cops and erasing all trace of the incident. But with a little something in his system, this interaction with the Dodge AI would have gone much more smoothly.

“The last known location of Megan Master was?” Castiel asked, sounding more hopeful than he felt.

“Megan Masters last seen at Afterlife, in Downwinds Maithspás.”

Finally, some information that he could use. Meg had been close to one of the legal border points.

“Set GPS to West-Midwest border control nearest Maithspás.”

The image in front of Castiel flickered, in the centre a dot telling him the percentage of the route calculated. Castiel committed the highways and exit numbers to memory, in case the machine had a mind of its own. Then Castiel requested, “Plot route to next border control north of Maithspás. Show second route as real-time broadcast location, leave original route as stationary heads up image.”

Safe in the knowledge that he’d achieved a degree of misdirection, Castiel kicked up his speed. He was determined to increase the gap between him and the unwanted protection detail. His plan was to be far enough ahead that he wouldn’t be within their visual range when the junction came up for the route to the wrong crossing point. He was depending on the clones relying on whatever tracking device Gabriel had had installed on the truck and taking the other route. By the time they realised that Castiel wasn’t heading in that direction, they would be too far behind him to interfere. When that junction appeared on the gantry signs above the highway, Castiel didn’t give it a second glance. He simply drove past it, focused on the miles of road in front of him.

Not far outside of Bhuel, Castiel pulled into a rest stop. There was a suitably run-down looking diner alongside the ubiquitous chain coffee-shop and gas station. The diner would make a suitable hang-out while he investigated what Meg had been doing in Maithspás and who she had been with. There were three other people in the place. One sat up at the counter. The other two sharing a booth close to the door. Castiel deliberately chose a large booth in the back corner, nearest the doors to the restrooms and kitchen, potential escape routes should Gabriel’s team be more efficient than he had given them credit.

Making use of the free net offered by the diner, he used the port in his wrist to jack in. Yeah, it was slower and was more difficult to cover up his tracks, but then again, he was deliberately not hiding behind his usual level of secrecy and security. He wanted the right people to notice that Emmanuel, Jimmy, and Steve were on-line and in Bhuel.

The one thing that Castiel had not expected when he dug around for Meg’s movements and contacts over the last couple of days was not her connection to a law firm in the True North with a reputation for being shadier than most. Nor was it that she visited a dive in the Downwinds. What piqued Castiel’s interest was the bounty hunter that she had met up with in that Downinds bar. Turned out that said hunter had a brother, also a bounty hunter. One from the Midwest, one from the Northeast. In Castiel’s mind, this was no coincidence.

Now seemed like an appropriate time for one last-ditch attempt at forcing his father out of hiding. Under his breath, head down to hide the movement of his lips, Castiel began to pray.

“Father, Crëwr of Wēalhaz, you made me for this time, chose me to be the one to bring the rebellion of your children to an end and bring free will back to the peoples of this planet. Please, break your silence. Let me know I am on the right path, Father. The signs all point in one direction, but before I make my move – give me a sign that this is your will, that I am reading things right so that your will and yours alone be done. Thank you, Father.”

Castiel was sitting staring blankly ahead of him, not knowing whether he had been shouting in the wind or whether, finally, his prayers had been heard when the waitress came over to his table. Apparently, she was not there to take his order, because she already had a pot of hot water two tea bags and two rounds of toast with real honey. Exactly what he would have ordered!

“On the house, Hun,” she said as she placed all the items on the table in front of Castiel. “Be sure and let me know if you need anything else.”

Jubilant, Castiel thanked her and wasted no time cramming half a slice of toast into his mouth while he waited for the tea to brew.

Meg, it seemed, had found the Boy King and the Righteous Man!

Had Castiel dug a little deeper into the history of the two bounty hunters, then perhaps he would have second-guessed the miraculous appearance of the tea and toast. The prophecies had been sketchy on the details of the two other saviours of the world – merely that they would be ‘men at arms’, have some familial connection, and be at the behest of those out to detain the Immortal. This once, however, Castiel’s naivety and pride in his unwavering obedience to his Father’s will had worked in his favour.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Sam & Dean find out Emmanuel, Jimmy & Steve's location  
> \- Cas waits for Sam & dean to find him  
> \- The meeting doesn't go as any of them plan  
> \- Gabriel looks like a dick

The paperwork was burning a hole in his pocket. These were the genuine article, not the forgeries he was used to using to worm his way into places. He and Sammy had agreed that they would leave the trail for Michael and Lucifer’s cronies to pick up and assure the Archangels that the two bounty hunters were on the move and presumably hot on the tail of their mark. It was having to be so transparent in his movements that irked Dean. He detested being on a leash. On this job, it appeared that Michael had him on an even tighter one than when Dean was part of the Archangel’s elite protection squad. The tether might be invisible now, but it was there choking him the same. Once again Dean found himself almost stopping to consider if the two million carbons were worth it. Almost.

Bored guards cradled their Sternmeyer semi-automatics, shifting weight from foot to foot. Not ex-military then, Dean though idly, or they’d have been trained to stand stock still for hours on end. The lower half of their faces moulded into a permanent scowl, the rest of their face from the nose up was covered by their helmet and visor. Old-school intimidation tactics that might have worked on civilians, but not Dean or Sam.

Dean was two cars back from the front of the line when the K-9s approached Baby. He couldn’t help the grimace or the clenching and unclenching of his hands on the steering wheel. He wasn’t concerned about them finding the concealed compartment with the additional, unlicensed weapons. He was worried that one of the bozos controlling the robotic dogs would screw up and they’d leave scratches all over his beloved Impala.

Sam wasn’t faring any better. He was fretting over Meg. He’d found out that there wasn’t much to discover. Megan Masters was a cover name. A woman named Megan Masters had died fifty years ago in a firefight in central Dheas, aged twenty-five. After that, there was no trace of anyone with that name in any Territory of the Kapron or the True North until three years ago, when she had popped up as a medevac nurse for a chop shop in the midzones of Orga Gaita.

“Any idea why a rogue medevac from Orga Giata would have contacts with a half-way respectable law-firm in Keelams?”

“Family connections? Ex-client paying off a debt? I don’t know. Think it has anything to do with the case? I mean she seemed to have your number from the get-go. On an Archangel’s payroll?”

“No. Not if my shadow programme confirms what I’ve already researched about that law firm.”

Sam zoned out.

Dean guessed he was checking on the progress of the shadow. Breathing a sigh of relief that they’d survived the contraband search Dean inched the car forward as the electronic monitoring system called the car in front of them up to the final inspection point. Whether the car had survived the search unscathed remained to be seen.

“I was right. Crowley, MacLeod and Craig has been associated with the Coven. They’re a couple of millennia-old organisation that originated in Erpach, part of Escaria. Highly secretive bunch and not big fans of our beloved Archangels and their brethren. So, I doubt Meg is working for any of the Archangels, not even Gabriel.

“Then Sammy, the only logical explanation is that she’s working for the Coven – because she sure as eggs are eggs isn’t doing this out of the goodness of her heart.”

That was the rub, wasn’t it? Why would the Coven, vociferous opponents of the Host outside the continent of Kapron want to help a couple of good for nothing bounty hunters who were in the employ of the Archangels?

“But why? It makes no sense…unless it’s a ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ kind of deal.”

The conversation was cut short when it became their turn for final inspection. Like law-abiding citizens of the Combined Territories, they both presented one of their fingers for banned substance checks and allowed their biometrics and wetware to be scanned. As expected, the weapons that they disclosed they were carrying as tools of their trade, were tagged – in case they were stupid enough to use them for anything other than hunting their mark.

Bobby had a knack for calling at the most inopportune times. Dean gave the border control agent a weak smile as he pushed a standard ‘call you right back when I’m free’ message through the system. He received an almost instant direct message back:

“E, J and S are in Bhuel. Thought you might want to know.”

The border successfully cleared, Dean sped off, careful to stay below the speed limit on the route to Buhel.

“What would you say if I told you all three of the men who’ve been pissing off the Archangels are in the same town, a twenty-minute drive from here at this very moment?”

Sam’s face light up in understanding. “I’d tell Max and Alicia to stay the hell away and that we promise to pay them their cut because it’s obviously one dude we’ve all been contracted to collect.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed grimly, “ever get the feeling that everyone’s setting you up to be their fall guy?”

Sam’s response was the trademarked Bitch Face no. 3.

Dean had to admit the throw-away comment was a smidge below the belt – even for him. Sam knew exactly what it was like to be an Archangel’s patsy. He kept his eyes glued to the road, watching for signs to take them off the highway and onto the unmaintained old road network. The churning in his stomach intensified. When all of this was over, Baby was going to need a lot more tender loving care than she already needed before he had driven her half-way across the country.

“He’s not in Bhuel itself. He’s not far outside though, maybe no more than a fifteen-mile radius”

“You sure?”

“Not without running another trace. But I wouldn’t want to telegraph our presence. If it were me, I’d have set a Hound series warning in place to trigger if anyone appeared to be sniffing around trying to work out where I was running things from.”

Dean shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal response. If Bobby had gotten close enough to pin down Emmanuel’s location, then either the guy would be out the door before they got there and the goose chase would continue, or the guy wanted them to find him. His gut, which was rarely wrong, told him the latter was true. Didn’t mean Sam was wrong about having some net protection set-up. Better to work it out the old-fashioned way by narrowing down possible locations based on all the information they had gathered about Emmanuel over the last few days.

“Any disused out of town malls, transit stations, or industrial zones within in your radius?”

“Hmmm. Nope. Not that aren’t still toxic. But there is a rest stop off the I70 just the other side of the junction. Looks like it’s got…the usual suspects…aha…independent diner, claims to have been in the same family for 100 years. They offer free coffee and jacked-in net access.”

“That your bet?”

Sam turned to look at Dean with a shit-eating grin. “I’d put your last carbon on it!”

*****************************************************************************************************

Castiel preened at one specific hit on his streams. Someone by the name of SingerAuto from supposedly Sheym Fror, South Stoara had attempted to lock down his location. Not a coincidence. Not after the free tea and toast from Crëwr. Castiel was certain that whoever that was had nothing to do with Gabriel or Meg. He couldn’t put any logical reason to his belief that SingerAuto was assisting the Boy King and the Righteous Man, but the notion persisted. So, Castiel hadn’t released his Blade programme to fry their brains. Instead, he’d sat where he was, his presence pulsing like a homing beacon drawing his fellow Saviours of the World to the diner.

Therefore, Castiel was not in the least surprised when the bell above the diner door jangled as if it was a real entrance chime from two or three centuries ago, admitting two men into the diner. An initial scan confused him. They didn’t look similar enough to be brothers. Then again, he did not look like any of his brothers, but they had an excuse. In their true forms they didn’t have corporeal bodies, the forms they took on Wēalhaz were host bodies of the poor who had either willingly given up their bodies to house an Angel or had died in a facility where the corpses were sold to the highest bidder for stack insertion. Castiel looked beyond the surface, into the innermost parts of the men. What the priests of the old ways would call their souls. These two shared a bond that, if not entirely created through blood, was as strong a familial bond as he had ever come across.

The urge to call out and ask them to join him was strong. It was, however, a more appropriate strategy to wait and see what they did. Let them find him and announce their intentions of their own accord. So, after what he hoped looked like a cursory glance, Castiel returned to staring at the table with as vacant an expression as he could muster, attempting to look like a man engrossed in whatever he was surfing through the net. The waiting was interminable. An accurate count, because the diner’s system showed how long customers had been jacked in, showed the wait was one minutes and forty-three seconds before two shadows loomed at the table.

Castiel tilted his head at the intruders, wishing to confirm it was them.

The shorter of the two took that as an invitation and slid into the booth. His companion followed suit.

“So, Emmanuel, Jimmy, Steve or whatever the hell your name is. Gonna share with the class what the real game is? Because for someone ruffling Archangel feathers all over the Combined Territories, you’ve been awfully sloppy about telegraphing your location this morning.”

“And you are? It is normal to introduce oneself before sitting at another person’s table, is it not?”

The long-haired one placed a hand on the other’s shoulder attempting to stop him bristling. Of course, Castiel knew exactly who they were, but he had to play dumb for the crowd rueing that he hadn’t bothered looking for pictures to know who was Dean, and who was Sam.

“Apologies. Perhaps, as you seem to have us at a disadvantage as well, you could tell us your real name. Not the pseudonyms. I am Sam, and this is my brother, Dean.”

“Castiel.”

“Ok, ‘Castiel’,” Dean growled slamming his fists down on the table. “Give me one good reason why we don’t haul your ass out of here and turn you over to the highest bidding Archangel?”

“Because you’re both curious. How you were contracted doesn’t make sense does it? I mean two of the most powerful beings on the face of Wēalhaz employing two bounty hunters to go after someone? Why not use their private task forces? Their elite bodyguards? Then there are the extraordinarily large sums of money they’re both offering, and by the way – Raphael’s offer was similarly ridiculous. The bounty seems over the top for someone who hides in the net, posts little films or tweaks the programming tracks, but hasn’t actually made any demands, called for civil disobedience or…quite frankly, done anything much to warrant that kind of attention.”

“Keep talking. Not seeing any compelling reasons yet. You, Sammy?”

Castiel rubbed his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in all directions. Castiel had this weird sexy professor who’s rolled out of bed look going on already, what with the ill-fitting suit and grubby tan trench coat. Now that the hair was more messed up, it added to the vibe in ways that had Dean struggling to maintain his professional demeanour.

“I agree, except…this impersonation of a sleazy 21st-century tax accountant doesn’t fit with some criminal mastermind. So, yeah, Castiel, explain what’s going on.”

Castiel leaned against the back of the booth, folding his hands in his lap. He raked his eyes over Dean and Sam, then flicked his gaze above their heads. He caught Dean staring into his eyes. The indication of a bounty hunter sizing up whether the mark was about to go postal, and what kinds of crazy he’d have to deal with if they did. But, of course, today Castiel was stone-cold sober. His eyes wouldn’t yield any obvious signs of recent drug usage.

“Either of you believers? I mean in the words of the prophets of Crëwr, Creathadair of Wēalhaz. Or do I have to start from the very beginning on the tales of how the Immortal, the Boy King and the Righteous Man restore free will to the peoples of this planet?”

Sam’s eyes flickered like he was trying to access memories. Or perhaps he was one of those few who could connect to the net without help, so long as the signal was strong enough and was looking up references.

“You might want to let me explain unless of course you’re versed in Grèigeach.

Sam twitched at the mention of the arcane language. Dean’s expression remained vacant; his body though was at high alert ready to strike whatever pissed him off at any second. It struck Castiel that he now knew who was to play which part. Sam Winchester was the Boy King, the book-smart genius. Dean Winchester was the Righteous Man, the bright shining soul.

“I am the one the priests call the Immortal, the man out of time, one of the Corca Oidce. It is my destiny to do as my father foretold, as it is yours to play your parts alongside me.”

“Now just a cotton-picking minute, you’re seriously looney tunes, Dude. Prophecy? Corca Oidce…”

“Dean, can it. Kevin told me to get the Grèigeach in my translation.”

“Nbia?” Castiel asked, his eyebrows arching.

Before he could register Sam’s response, Castiel’s whole world stopped spinning. His eardrums felt like they were about to explode, and his vessel slumped headfirst into the empty plate in front of him.

*********************************************************************************************************

Headache. Pounding like a sledgehammer against his skull. Ears ringing. Every muscle in his body begging for some relief. Sam hesitated to open his eyes. Nothing about the sensations in his body gave him the hope that anything good had happened. The last thing he remembered was sitting at a greasy diner table with Dean muttering about having to use more than the allotted motel rations of soap to get himself clean. Jimm…no, not Jimmy, or Emmanuel, or Steve…Cas…Cas…Castiel had been with them. The guy Lucifer had contracted Sam to retrieve for him. There was nothing after that. Not until he had woken up five minutes ago feeling like death warmed over. Sam did a cursory check of his extremities. Yup, he could flex fingers and toes – on both sides. Only his hands were bound together behind the back of whatever he’d been propped up against. He wasn’t cuffed, and it wasn’t any form of rope or plastic holding him. He couldn’t feel anything against his skin, but he couldn’t move his hands away from each other either. He was offline too. No low-level thrum of the net scratching at the back of his consciousness. He was going to have to force the muscles in his neck to lift his head and open his eyes.

Dean was sat a couple of feet away from him. He looked knocked out. They were both sat on chairs backed onto concrete columns. There were no windows and no easily identifiable doors to the cavernous room. Faint white lines ran in rows indicating that at some point in its history, it had been used as a car park. If it had been, then there had to be an exit somewhere that eventually lead to the outside world.

Conspicuous in his absence was Castiel. Sam had two theories to account for that. Someone else had got wind of the massive pay-out and wanted to grab it for themselves, or their adversary was several steps ahead of them and joined the ever-growing list of assholes who were intent on setting him and Dean up. Option two seemed the most concerning of the two.

“Dean! Dean! DEAN!”

“Wha…wha…fuck, how much did you let me…sonofafuckingbitch.” Dean had discovered their predicament. “How did we end up like this? Last thing I remember we were listening to the ramblings of a madman, then nothing.”

“Don’t know, but do you see someone missing from this picture?”

In reply, Dean started yanking at his hands, trying to find a way out of whatever was holding them. His face contorted in frustration as he realised that he couldn’t feel what it was that was binding his hands. If he couldn’t easily pull separate his wrists and he had no idea what was keeping them in place, how the hell could he work out how to get out of the predicament.

Sam knew what Dean was thinking because he was having the exact same thoughts. No lock pick tucked carefully up the sleeve, no sawing away on the corner of the post, or splinter gouged out of the back of the wooden chair was going to work, because there was apparently nothing to use them on. It was even worse, no doubt, for his brother, seeing as Dean appeared unable to use the strength of his cybernetic arm to free himself.

“Castiel, you bastard, get your ass down here and let us out!”

“Doubt he’s gonna hear you, Dean,” Sam tried to placate his brother. Better to save the name-calling for when the bastard was standing in front of them. “More to the point is how do we get out of this if we’ve no idea what is holding us?”

“Or where we are. If anything has happened to Baby, forget the bloody Archangels, I’m going to eviscerate the asshole excruciatingly slowly while making him listen to one of Raphael’s untampered conditioning programmes on a loop.”

Of course, Dean’s biggest concern was the car. Sam huffed in exasperation. A truckload of unanswered questions, the two of them in a disused parking lot that was in alarmingly good condition for not having been used for maybe a century, and Dean was fixating on a lump of metal with four wheels and an old-fashioned incineration engine.

“Ok, let’s play back our movements from crossing the border to waking up here trussed up like we’re in some B rated action movie from the twentieth century.”

“We left Maithspás and headed for the border crossing. Bobby messaged you that all three targets were in Bhuel. That information connected the dots that we had only one dude to collect, so we headed in that direction. I traced his location to outside central Bheul, and we deduced from that he was likely to be at the diner at the rest stop. We worked out which of the few customers it was likely to be…”

“…then he started this spiel about nonsensical religious claptrap. I zoned out. But I’m guessing you were all nerdy ears and lapping up every word…”

Sam pouted and shifted indignantly in his seat, as much as his restrained position would allow. “Hold up! Why the hell aren’t my nanites calming down whatever’s causing the headache?”

“You’re seriously asking me? Boom! That’s why. The big boom!”

“Uh, explain?”

“The diner was bombed. Don’t know what kind, but maybe it…”

“Shit. Whatever it was…oh, crap…it was a Jackerhammer grenade. MWC sell those to, well, almost anybody in a position of power that wants them. Bet that’s why I’m disconnected too. Along with the physical incapacitation, it disrupts net connection temporarily, but you need to use a hardwired port to reconnect. Background net connectivity won’t just restart by itself. It’s why Jackhammer’s are great for crowd control.”

“Bravo, sasquatch! Well deduced.”

“Loki? You scum sucking, cheating asshole. YOU? You did this?”

Sam shook his head. Who the fuck was Loki and why did Dean know him? He wasn’t aware of any registered bounty hunter named Loki. So how had they met? Sam had kept enough tabs on his brother to know that Dean hadn’t been in the West since the rift between them. So, was this clusterfuck personal and not to do with Castiel at all? Was their being with him when the attack had happened just an unfortunate coincidence? It would explain Castiel’s absence as well as the other options Sam had previously come up with.

“I did indeed, Deano!” Loki stuck the half-eaten sucker he’d been holding into his mouth. He sucked on it for a few seconds before pulling it out with a satisfying pop. “Nothing personal though. Simply needed to protect my neutral position here. Think of me like Helvatea.”

“Gabriel!” Sam exclaimed. Well, that blew away any notion they had of handing Castiel over to the Archangel of the West to deal with the thorny situation of which brother to present him to.

“The very same. You really aren’t just a pretty face, are you? Good thing one of you two has brains. I take it that like every other person on this dadforsaken planet, even you can be bought for a price. How much is Lucifer offering you, Sammy?” The Archangel raised an eyebrow, as he rocked back on his heels and placed the sucker in his mouth again.

Sam gritted his teeth. In the silence of the ex-car park, he could hear the click of Dean’s jaw as he ground it in, anger and the irritating slurp of Gabriel working his way through the candy. Not for the first time since he’d woken up, Sam missed his ability to surreptitiously find whatever he needed on the net.

“Hah, thought as much! Looks like it’s one point to me at the moment. Oh, and before either of you thinks to ask…one -Castiel is safe – this territory is acknowledged as a sanctuary state; two – I haven’t, yet, notified my dearest siblings that I caught their stooges up to nefarious acts against the convention of the Combined Territories granting the West its sanctuary status. I thought it best for the welfare of everyone concerned to hold onto that for a while. Although, I expect that they have trackers on you that caught you crossing the border and probably now show you holed up several miles south-west of Buhel.”

Sam wanted to wipe the smug grin off Gabriel’s face. It was a good thing that he was restrained because no matter how much Gabriel might deserve it, bitch-slapping an Archangel was probably as good as signing your own death warrant. Unlike his brother, Sam wasn’t prone to suicidal acts. Self-sacrifice on occasion, out of the desire for a greater good, but not because his own life didn’t count for anything. Sam did, however, grudgingly admit that Lucifer thinking he was alive was a good thing – for now.

“The Archangel of the goddamned West! That was why you had enough money to fritter away and a new meatsuit for different games.” Dean joined the conversation. Once again focusing on selfish things, not the burning issue at hand, an exasperated Sam thought.

Sam immediately caught on to how Dean knew Gabriel. His brother, it appeared, had a fondness for gambling. Addiction was a more apt word, but in that way that only family can, Sam allowed his brother the luxury of the white lie. The admission raised a serious question for Sam. Why in the hell was the head of Vesperien, Archangel of the West, playing poker with the likes of Dean in the Northeast?

Leaning towards Dean, he asked in the most atrocious stage whisper, “If you guys have played cards before, does that mean you know his tells?”

“And I know all of Deano’s – especially the whirring of his servos as he clenches and unclenches his hand under the table. He thinks no-one else can hear if he wears enough layers – even in the summer swelter of Nua Emboraca,” Gabriel responded, waving the sucker around like a winner’s trophy.

“Sonofabitch!”

It was Gabriel’s turn for theatrics. He knelt down by Dean, looking straight at Sam, the sucker now back in his mouth and shoved to the left-hand corner. “Might want to muzzle your brother, Samsquatch. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed…and his vocabulary seems a trifle limited to me. Just a thought!”

Sam had enough self-control left to drag the conversation back to his and Dean’s predicament and what was Gabriel’s plan. “Point taken. Let’s say we dial back the testosterone. You obviously have something in mind here, Gabriel. Otherwise, why keep us locked up here, why not simply hand our asses over to one of the others as having failed our mission? Apart from your so-called sanctuary status, why protect Castiel? Other than, as far as my sources tell me, he hasn’t poked fun at you yet.”

Sam saw a momentary flinch from Gabriel. He covered it up as quickly as it had hit him, returning to his normal nonchalant demeanour. Without his enhanced vision, Sam wouldn’t have noticed it. Finally, something had rattled the Archangel. A sore spot to prod at a little more.

“Ah! Ok, I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. He has had a dig, hasn’t he?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught Dean trying to work his way free again. This time twisting his hand to an angle that flesh and bone wrists couldn’t turn to and trying to use his cybernetic fingers to pry the invisible force apart.

“Irrelevant. What is relevant is that you two snivelling little apes stop pissing around in the little leagues feeling sorry for yourselves about how the big bad angels might have got one over on you and play the goddamned roles that you were destined to.”

Err…what roles? Because seeing as Gabriel had prevented him and Dean from doing their job, taking Castiel in couldn’t be the role. If he had connectivity, he could check out…wait a minute! Although running the net wasn’t an option, scouring the long-term databanks in his head was. There was a gnawing sensation that Kevin’s insistence on him reading the old holy texts had something to do with the current situation. On the face of it, there was no logical solution, but Sam Winchester was nothing if not able to take whatever felt hinky and work his way through a myriad of unlikely answers until he hit the jackpot.

“Come along. Tick tock. Are you gonna play or not?” Gabriel finished the sucker. He gave the empty stick a baleful look before throwing it away, reaching into his back pocket and producing another one. While he was unwrapping it, he threw out another question, “Do I have to resort to playing one of Raphael’s conditioning tapes? I hear they’re all the rage in the South. Don’t be fooled by the…Deano – I can see you. It’s a secret device I got one of my tech wizards to knock up…ooh, I don’t know…long before we happened upon this delightful rock. You won’t get out until I let you. Save the energy. Now, what’s my answer? This place is fully equipped with speakers and they work, so up to you boys.”

Neither Sam nor Dean answered. Sam hadn’t figured it out yet and if he didn’t know odds were Dean didn’t either. If there was a common Winchester trait it was pig-headed stubbornness, often landing them in hot water, but keeping their precious pride intact. The brothers would rather risk Gabriel making good on his threat than admit they had no idea what he was talking about. Sam needed more time.

In the ensuing silence, Gabriel spun on his heel and walked away.

*****************************************************************************************************

Castiel wasn’t going to forgive Gabriel in a hurry. Castiel was glad that his brother had realised that playing neutral when their father’s creations were being wiped out by their older brothers was tantamount to cowardice. However, knocking him and the two bounty hunters out and forcibly removing them from the diner, was help Castiel could do without.

Now Gabriel wouldn’t let him near the bounty hunters. Gabriel had Dean and Sam locked up in one of his empty corporate buildings, while Castiel languished under a form of informal house arrest in Gabriel’s private apartment. Sitting in the lavishly furnished two-storey penthouse above Vesperien’s global headquarters wasn’t a hardship. However, with Gabriel monitoring every attempt to access the net and installing a Krash76 that unceremoniously dumped Castiel out when he tried. It could have been worse, according to Gabriel, any attempt by Balthazar to do anything other company business on the net resulted in him being rerouted to a repeating loop of Coghad’s adverts for its full immersion VR beach holiday camps. Castiel thanked Crëwr for small mercies.

Faith. He had to have faith. He had believed enough that he was doing his father’s work by stirring up trouble with his brothers. Once Balthazar had pointed him in the right direction, he had developed a total conviction that he was the Immortal from the book of Cerridwenion. It was divine destiny that had drawn Dean and Sam Winchester to find him in that diner, wasn’t it? He had been so sure at the time. He had prayed and had received a clear sign that his prayers had been answered. Now stuck here, he wasn’t so certain. Gabriel’s lack of belief in the Winchester brothers had soured Castiel’s previously unwavering acceptance of the prophecies.

Another thought, unbidden and infuriating, had begun to take hold. Balthazar had betrayed him. Trusting the angel in Escaria had always been a risk. Castiel had allowed their ages-old friendship to cloud his judgement. But why? What did Balthazar stand to gain by selling Castiel out to the highest bidder?

Castiel began pacing the room. He kicked petulantly at the ornate side-table piled high with every imaginable sweet delicacy. He wasn’t interested in them. What he needed was a hit. To lose himself in the arms of a narcotic. But he didn’t even have that luxury. Gabriel ensured Castiel got a small enough dose of a cocktail of drugs to keep away the worst symptoms of withdrawal from the borrowed vessel. Not that it was addicted mind. The dosage was never enough to feel the full effects of any one of them – neither the high-speed up zone nor the chill-out zone. Maybe this was what it was like to live under the spell of Raphael’s programming. At his lowest moments, Castiel wished that Gabriel had also balanced out his emotions, maybe given him more than the regulation dose of Equalizer. Made him a zombie like Michael and Raphael had done to the populations of the Northeast and the South.

On the umpteenth about-turn of his pacing, Castiel stopped. He’d not heard the woman, hovering by the hologram of a fireplace, slip into the room. Castiel couldn’t recall ever having seen her before. A flash of inspiration struck him.

“Uh hey, I know my brother means well, but please can you remove these?” Castiel pointed to the trays. “The cloying smell does not agree with my vessel. I could do with some tea instead, please, um….”

“Absolutely, Castiel. It would be my pleasure. I am Rachael, I’ll be assisting you this week.”

Assisting? That was what Gabriel called babysitting him. Whatever. In a manner of speaking, in a few minutes time Rachael would most certainly be assisting him. Castiel spent the following ten minutes fleshing out his plan. There was no guarantee of success but trying was better than sitting in his gilded prison cell doing nothing.

Rachel shouldered open the door, carrying a tray with a teapot, hot water a small pot of honey and fresh china. Castiel made sure to stay out of her way from the door to the table. If he’d calculated correctly, he’d also be out of her line of sight long enough to deliver a precise blow to her stack. Centuries as one of Crëwr’s warriors had taught him many methods of hand to hand combat designed to silently immobilise an opponent without killing them - unless terminating them was the desired outcome. Not something Rachael deserved.

As Rachael stepped away from the table, but before she could turn around to leave the room, Castiel struck. Rachael’s optical implants flickered, then went offline as she slumped to the floor, the connection between her stack and vessel temporarily disrupted.

Castiel stared at the body slumped to the floor. Had it been too easy to take Rachael out? No time to worry about it though, he had exactly 3 minutes and 21 seconds before everything would be back on-line again. Which meant he had less than 60 seconds to begin the data search through her wrist port and only two minutes before he needed to call someone, informing them of the apparent malfunction of Rachel’s interlink.

Castiel downloaded everything mention he could sweep from the on and offworld nets of Dean and Sam Winchester. Once the commotion had died down, and Gabriel had read him the riot act, Castiel settled down with his now lukewarm tea to review the data he’d extracted. Some of it was encrypted. Stuck behind the Ice and Berserker programs of MatraWessColt and Imstraer Biotech. Castiel filed that data away for another day. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that his brothers had such well-protected files on the Boy King and the Righteous Man? The ominous heavy feeling in his stomach told Castiel that he wasn’t going to like what he found.

After skimming through the unencrypted data, Castiel didn’t like what he found there all that much either. Sam and Dean were the ones, that much was evident. Nowhere in the texts that Castiel had found did it say that the Boy King would be a junkie who had once been the murderous minion of the Devil himself. Nor could he recall ever having seen anything to suggest that the Righteous man would be the poster child for so many of the Deadly Sins.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Team Free Will break out of captivity, with a little help from a certain someone.

The funny thing about prophecies is that they aren’t a hundred per cent accurate representation of future events. Most of the priests in their temples are very quick to make that disclaimer. Even the backstreet fortune tellers always make sure to give themselves that out against vengeful clients slicing and dicing them because their loved-one never did come back. If you’d asked one such Missouri Moseley, she’d have told you it was because people coming to learn about the future very rarely want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. What they want is hope. Most prophecies are the same. Even those with fire and brimstone, bemoaning the wicked ways of peoples who have forsaken their one true god. Buried in there somewhere is a massive loophole, get out of jail free card, and a big dose of something to provide the idea that there might be light at the end of the tunnel.

For an Archangel, Gabriel ought to have known better. He had lived for millennia carrying out his father’s orders, delivering messages to Crëwr’s creations across the universes and seeing time and again how one small act could totally screw up the best-laid plans of even the creator of the multiverse. So it ought really to have come as no surprise that, by getting so hands-on in Castiel’s business as to almost take it away from his favourite younger brother, he had made it far harder than it should have been to get the three saviours heading in the right direction – together. Nowhere in any of the mainstream texts did it say that two members of the Corca Oidce would stand against the others. Somewhere along the line, Gabriel had become so ashamed at his cowardice in not standing up to the other three that he overcompensated when he finally stopped sitting on the pine.

For two whole weeks, he sent false information through to Michael, Lucifer, and Raphael. During the same two weeks, he insisted on keeping Castiel and the Winchesters apart. More importantly, he kept all three from having any access to the net. Although he did later find out that Castiel had somehow managed to circumvent all of Gabriel’s carefully laid traps and access the net.

Gabriel’s biggest error, though, was in underestimating how stubborn the Winchesters could be. Despite his best efforts, they refused to agree to his plan and disparaged his attempts to act as an intermediary. It should have been self-evident that a three-person team cannot, by definition, consist of four people. It should have been clear that the three men needed to form a bond between themselves. Yes, the brothers had a strong familial bond, but neither had any connection to Castiel before Gabriel Jackhammered the lot of them and imprisoned them in separate Vesperien buildings in downtown An Spiorat. To anyone regarding the situation from a dispassionate viewpoint, Gabriel’s interference was a hindrance to the fulfilment of Cerridwenion’s, and the other prophets’, divinations.

************************************************************************************************

Crowley stepped off the transport outside Orga Giata. The mist rolled in off the bay. It clung to the terminal buildings and the control towers, an ominous presence like a harbinger of disaster. Meg had gone to ground. She was refusing to answer any call or message Crowley sent. Her signal read ‘do not disturb’. It had done since her last transmission from the Midwest which had precipitated his ‘gift’ delivery to her home here. Meg’s disappearance didn’t alarm Crowley per se. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he was the only one who made use of her services. Not hearing from a mercenary for a few days was hardly newsworthy. However, the undercover news pages had been buzzing with a story about Gabriel’s elite forces Jackhammering a quiet diner in an unremarkable town in Crebia. The reports varied. Some claiming that everyone in the diner had been extracted, others claiming five people, yet others only three.

Crowley was a smart man. He could put two and two together with breadcrumbs like this. Somehow Gabriel had screwed the pooch for him and taken the three men Crowley wanted into custody. He would have been lying if he said that the usually predictable Archangel of the West hadn’t surprised him with that move. It was Gabriel’s intervention that made Meg’s disappearance more suspicious than Crowley might have otherwise viewed it. So, here he was getting involved – like Rowena wanted! If only to protect his own interests with Gabriel.

He stepped up to the immigration cyberdroid, ready for the bioscan. The unlicensed brawling and weapons chips in his head were ‘enchanted’ to avoid detection. The magic would also dampen his brainwaves and physiological responses when he lied about the reason for his visit from the True North. There were some perks to having grown up around the Coven and their witchcraft. Strange to think that for all the so-called technological advances of the age, the influence of spells and sigils could allow someone to bend the workings of the world to their own advantage. Considered too backwards to be harmful, nothing about the amulet that Crowley wore or the symbols on his cufflinks would trigger any alarms. However, they would allow him to enter the Combined Territories without having a valid reason, other than the well-practised lies that tripped so easily from his tongue.

“Purpose and duration of visit?”

A little humanising of the droids wouldn’t have gone amiss, he thought as he positioned himself on the illuminated footprints in the scanner.

“Business with Roman Valente and Associates at their offices in An Spiorat. I’m visiting a friend here tonight, then taking another transport there tomorrow. I’ll be in the Combined Territories for 5 days.”

After a short pause, a green light flashed and Crowley walked out of the scanner, supposedly on his way to his friend’s home.

Trying not to look too smug, Crowley clicked his heels and walked out of the terminal to find a cab, whistling to himself. The further into the city the autocab drove, the heavier the mist became as it mixed with the pollution smog that had never left the city, no matter how ‘green’ the energy laws became. Previous generations had done too much damage. At a street corner near the supposed address of a medical evacuation company, Crowley exited the cab. Drawing his jacket collar up and wearing a scarf over his mouth and nose against the smog, he trudged several blocks through the corporate zone to a small independent coffee-shop. He prayed to whoever was listening that they had real coffee, not the mushroom or the chicory sludge.

Once inside, he set himself up at a table by the window to watch the world go by for a few hours. At least, that’s what it looked like from the outside. In reality, Crowley was working his way through every crumb in the infuriating trail. He pulled every blip that could be a movement of Castiel, either of the Winchesters, or Meg. He ran routines to collate every article the mainstream on and offworld media ran about Versperien, every mention of Gabriel in the past three months. He added to that Castiel’s attacks on his brothers – the date, the time, where the signal had been routed to look like it was coming from, the time between attacks. Then, Crowley pulled all of that together in a giant evidence map in his head.

**************************************************************************************************

“Shut up, Dean!”

Dean opened his mouth to protest. He wasn’t yelling. He’d merely stated loudly that he wanted Castiel to leave him alone. Although, this was the first time they’d been face to face since the diner. So, sue him! He hadn’t had caffeine, any form of alcohol, any junk food, or any pie in over two weeks. Hair-trigger didn’t even come close to describing how twitchy he was.

Sam slapped his hand over his brother’s mouth.

Dean had to restrain the reflex to bite him. It was Sam, not anyone trying to harm him.

“I…I think…I think I’ve found a way to get you guys out of here.”

Sam’s hand was suddenly a godsend to prevent him from snapping the idiot Host’s head off. If it wasn’t for Castiel, neither Dean nor Sam would be in this predicament. It was embarrassing to be saved by a nerdy self-confessed failure of an angel with delusions of grandeur.

Dean imitated Castiel’s head tilt as he pried Sam’s hand away. “Let’s hear it then?”

“I…I can’t give you the details…you know…” Castiel gestured around the room outside the brothers’ cell. He drew attention to the cameras and the blue lights along the top of the room with the AI surveillance programmes on a low background hum. “Just bear with me. I…I told Gabe I was going to have another go at convincing you. So, I’m going to do just that!” Castiel gave them what Dean guessed was his version of a wink, except it looked more like Castiel blinked as his right eye fluttered closed almost as much as his left.

Sam rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands as he muttered in exasperation, “For fuck’s sake, dude! Can we do away with this super-spy shit? You’re useless at it. Here’s the long and short of where we are after two weeks of your brother’s hospitality. You think that the three of us are the saviours of the world foretold by prophets and preached in the temples of Maaxan, or anywhere else that they believe Crëwr is the Cruthadair of Wēalhaz. We get it. We still think you’re short a few circuits in the old stack. What else is there to say? Oh, yeah apart from you are so good at not getting caught that, er let me see…us, your brother’s goons and a merc working for the Coven all managed to locate you with ease.”

“I can assure you,” Castiel bristled, “that all the wetware and hardware in my stack are functioning within their designated parameters, and that there is no problem with the interface between my stack and this body…”

“If the two of you’ve finished your measuring contest? Can we get on with the spiel, and then maybe…I don’t know…get the hell out of dodge!”

“I don’t understand. This place is not called Dodge.”

“No, Cas it’s a…uh, nevermind.” Dean slumped back against the cell wall with his knees drawn up to his chest. He kept himself calm by throwing an imaginary ball against the forcefield wall, counting every throw. The irony that he had accused Castiel of being crazy when he was acting equally as nuts didn’t escape him. Dean might have been showing disinterest in the snake oil Castiel was selling, but Dean was hanging off every word he said.

“Meg is an old ‘friend’. We go way back before either of us set foot on this planet. She was, I admit, also working for some lawyer named Crowley in the True North whose firm has attachments to the Coven. Meg’s relationship with the Coven is complicated and irrelevant right now. Gabriel had the best of intentions in interfering…but that is not the point either.” Castiel shook his head, then started back trying to convince Sam and Dean of their destiny. “Sam, perhaps it is time that you flexed your…uh…muscles.” Castiel tapped his temple as he made the suggestion.

Dean stopped his imaginary ball throwing and turned his attention to Sam.

Sam had his vacant net running look on his face for about a minute. That was promising. Sam had denied having any access since the blast at the diner.

“How did you? Is this a trap? I can…” Sam stopped midway through the sentence and his face contorted in shock.

The field in front of them glitched, the grid pattern of the current becoming visible for a fraction of a second at a time. Because it was what any sane person would do, Dean tentatively crawled towards it, his chrome arm outstretched until he could touch the field. A jolt of power ran through him. It was weaker than it should have been if the field had been at full strength.

Beside him, Sam had the same look of bewilderment.

Dean tried again, this time his hand moved right through where the forcefield should have been.

“Quickly, move. Before I can’t shield things any longer. Sam, COME ON.”

Castiel shoved Sam, bringing his focus back into the room, looking shaken by whatever he had seen in the net.

Dean was up on his feet in a flash, a hand under Sam’s shoulder yanking him up with him.

“It’s true. Fuck! It’s really, really true. Fuck Castiel, how in the hell do you get…I mean…why us…I…it can’t be….” Sam panted as they sprinted along the corridor.

“But it is, Sam Winchester. You are the one they call the Boy King.”

Dean snorted, “Seriously, Sammy? You’re buying this shit? In what world am I a righteous man?”

Castiel rounded on him before Sam could answer. His trench coat flapped out behind him as he made the sharp about-turn. “Apparently it is your soul, not your…um…how shall I put it…less than savoury habits, that is righteous.” With that Castiel turned back and continued leading the Winchesters out of Gabriel’s facility.

*****************************************************************************************************

Running down the corridor hurt. Two weeks of captivity had given the injury to his hip time to heal, but the inactivity had made everything stiff. Being crammed into a cell meant for one prisoner had afforded neither brother much opportunity to stretch their limbs without getting in the other’s way. For Sam, used to being active and keeping everything moving, it had been an effective form of torture. Then suddenly being expected to move at full pelt was a shock to the muscles.

His mind was moving at a similar pace to his body. Thoughts whirling. Preconceptions of himself crumbling in moments. Prejudices being challenged. Trying to make sense of it all would take more effort than he could afford while trying to escape Gabriel.

The clincher to the abrupt altering of Sam’s reality had been Castiel’s ability to get him reconnected, however faintly with the net and bring down the wall holding him and Dean captive without so much as hinting at it from the outside. If there had ever been a moment where the hint of faith Sam had clung to was vindicated, it was then. Crëwr existed. The Host may not have proved to be the helpful messengers of the Cruthadair that the authors of the holy texts had written about, but the words the angels used to justify their actions lined up with the modern translations of the texts. When you read it in the original Grèigeach, as Sam had from the few passages Castiel had shown him through a private message, it became apparent that the line between the Corca Oidce and the angels was always blurred.

“Stop! Stop! I need to catch my breath!” Sam doubled over hands on his knees.

“No, Sam. No time,” Castiel urged. “It’s not far now to the outside. Meg’s waiting for us. Once we’re in her transport we can rest, but until then we must keep moving.”

“Lean on me, Sammy.”

Unwilling to be weak in the front of Dean, Sam sucked down a few deep breaths and lurched forward again. His hip was protesting violently, his lungs were burning but at least he was making his escape without needing his older brother’s support.

As promised when they emerged into the hazy sunshine of the An Spiorat afternoon, a black limo was waiting for them across the street. The engine was running. Meg was yelling at them from the driver’s seat to hurry up and get their asses in the car, pronto.

Castiel opened the passenger door and climbed up into the limo, leaving Sam and Dean to scramble into the back. The two doors had hardly closed when Meg pulled away, driving manually Sam noted, with a squeal of tyres against pavement.

Now that he was away from the influence of whatever dampening fields Gabriel had used, data began assaulting Sam. More data flooded his senses than he could ever remember before. Without a manual port, Sam’s net running ability was good but limited. The Demonex enhanced those abilities, but in a way that Sam could control the flow of data despite the speed. This was a completely different league.

Sam concentrated to try and pull some order to the data. If he could sift out the advertising that would be a good place to start. Except the more he dug, the more data flowed. His brain was going to explode if he couldn’t find a way to control what was going on.

“Relax, Sam. You’ll get used to it. Allow everything to wash over you for a couple of hours. It’s…I guess the best way to explain what’s happened is that you got another neural enhancement chip. Except no-one had to physically dig around in your gourd to install it.”

If that was meant to be reassuring, Meg’s bedside manner left a lot to be desired.

He could sense Dean twitching in the seat next to him. Dean was likely crawling out of his skin desperate to clock somebody. He reeked of overly protective big brother.

“But how? Why now?”

“Because old sex on legs Clarence here has some real hoodoo skills in the ether. I know he doesn’t look much, but it’s true. I have to hand it to your father, Clarence. You three make a real believable trio of saviours – not! Passing you in the street, I wouldn’t give you guys a second glance if I was looking for the Immortal, the Righteous Man and the Boy King.”

Sam leaned his head against the headrest, angling it so he could gaze aimlessly out the window at the strange sight of An Spiorat. Used to the grime of Choyotha and Mór Mears, the clean yet gaudy city was unsettling. However, it perfectly reflected the good-time nature of the Archangel of the West. Three, four, ten blocks later and the agitation was rising. The flow of information zipping across his mind hadn’t slowed a bit. It was mostly too fast to catch.

Castiel’s face appeared through the space between the front seats, peering at him with a bemused expression.

“Breath, Sam. Breath. Accept it. Don’t try to sort it. I understand it may feel too overwhelming at the moment, but its barely been twenty minutes.”

“But if anything, more’s trying to race through me than when we first left the building. I’m not sure I can…go with the flow here.”

“You were built for this.”

Sam wanted to believe Castiel, but he couldn’t help from trying latch onto to packages of information and sort them. It was how he worked. Taking chunks of data, sifting it, making sense of it. Nothing about Sam Winchester’s brain was built for letting things simply drift or, in this case, whizz through.

“Think of this as like a dam breaking, eventually all the pent-up water has rushed through and the reservoir below becomes calm again. You trusted me enough to accept who you are. Trust me in this, Sam.”

Castiel flashed Sam a toothy grin. He also, Sam noticed, then shot a glance at Dean and the corners of his mouth dropped.

“Almost at East Spira Place. You going to honour the meeting with my boss, or am I covering for you?”

Castiel turned back to Meg. “Get us out past the outer zones before we stop.”

Meg’s shoulders stiffened at the command which had neither please nor thank you tacked onto the end. At the next intersection, she swerved right towards Route Gaona and the outer zones.

*******************************************************************************************************

The way that the light was filtering in through Dean’s eyelids changed. He guessed that it was because Castiel had turned around in his seat again and had his head in the space between the two front seats. Dean knew that the piercing blue eyes were trained on him. However, he refused to open his eyes to check. He’d barely managed to stop clenching and unclenching his fists. The muscles in his good arm were so tight, he’d lay carbons down that he’d pack as much of a punch with it as his chrome one. If he opened his eyes, he’d find his target. Then one or both fists would fly.

“Don’t, Cas. Don’t say anything I might regret.”

He can’t see him, but he can hear Castiel thinking how to respond to that.

“Dean, I’m not sure…exactly…what you mean by that…”

Bingo, Yahtzee, we have a winner.

“I mean, shut the fuck up. Don’t start yammering on about religious texts, prophets, or Saviours of the Free World, or whatever crap you’re trying to sell us. I want to sit here in silence, while Chauffeuse Meg does her thing and gets us to whatever godforsaken place you’re expecting us to hide out.”

“Oh, I see. But Dean, I do need to explain more. You don’t believe me yet. Sam is beginning to get it after his neural upgrades, and once he gets used to being able to sift and synthesise data at the improved speed, he’ll be more on board with things. However, that isn’t the case with you. That’s not something I can gift you. Your talents are different, Dean. The gifts that you bring to the world are not about the net, the hardware, the wetware, or the cybernetic technology. You are a leader of people. They will rally to your cause. You bring with that leadership an instinct for formulating plans and strategies alongside the worthy human drives to protect and save people. If you let yourself drop the facades, you will reveal the true Dean Winchester who cannot comprehend doing anything but what is right for the good of the world, even if it costs you everything.”

Dean thumped his head back against the headrest. His eyes were firmly scrunched shut.

“I said don’t talk, Cas.”

“And yet,” Castiel said in an amused tone, “you have yet to try and either punch me in the face or blow my head off with your encoded weapon. However, in the spirit of what you have requested, I will refrain from telling you any more about your true self until you are in a more receptive state of mind.”

Thank every star in the universe for that! The rogue Host was making his head spin with all the tales of saviours coming to rid Wēalhaz of the Host. Then there was the insistence that Dean had a soul. Apparently, one that overrode the many vices in his life, making him righteous.

If it wasn’t for the way Sam was reacting, Dean would chalk it all up to the ramblings of a mad man and find a way of getting both him and Sam away from Cas and Meg. However, there was also the little matter of millions of carbons going begging if he didn’t pony up ‘Emmanuel’ to the Archangel of the Northeast. Although, as a realist, Dean was beginning to think that the money was a lost cause and the best he could hope for was to escape somewhere no-one else could find him until he’d had his fill of porn and booze and was ready to braindance away the rest of his days. Not a great life, but better than ending up in Michael, Lucifer or Raphael’s clutches. It would be a bonus if he could get Sam to come with him too. Oh yeah, he almost forgot – if he did bolt, he was also going to have to hide from Gabriel. How do you escape over the border to Meshuedo?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Team Free Will end up hiding out in the desert  
> \- Crowley and Gabriel face off

Meg’s fingers were tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. In the tense silence of the car, it was the only sound apart from the rumble of the tires on the potholed and cracked asphalt.

Sam had lost track of time. He had been aware that they’d been out of the city for a while now. The limo’s tires eating up the miles of the deserted freeway with nothing to hold your attention on either side of the road. Although, strangely it wasn’t a deadzone. He was picking up stray data feeds, images, and strange words that even the upgraded translator chip couldn’t understand. Meg drumming on the steering wheel was grating on him. His head ached. He was shivering despite the climate control in the car, but he couldn’t roll down the window because a) there was no obvious control for doing so, and b) the air in the desert was likely to be too noxious to breathe.

For years Sam had been lying to himself. Now, as Bobby would no doubt succinctly put it, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Sam wasn’t using Demonex solely for the enhanced netrunning abilities, although being able to do so at speed without a manual port had its advantages, he was using it because of the high he got from the amphetamine-like qualities of the drug. Gabriel had known that. He’d made sure that Sam received some generic amphetamine throughout his ‘stay’ at the Archangel’s facility. Not enough to give Sam a buzz, but enough to stave off any withdrawal symptoms. The doses only came every other day. It was the day that he should have had his dose, but Castiel had broken them out before Sam had been given it. Now the first signs of withdrawal were kicking in and the nanites would do nothing about it. They weren’t programmed to.

Sam wrapped his arms around himself and began rubbing at his triceps as you would in the dead of a Midwest winter in Choyotha. He let his head rest against the window. The solidity of the glass was grounding in a way that the soft wallowy seat wasn’t.

“How much longer?” He sounded like a whiny brat. Sam suspected that the tone of his whine hadn’t changed in twenty-odd years since he’d repeatedly annoyed John with the question, “are we there yet?” Knowing full well that there was rarely any ‘there’ until John couldn’t drive anymore. When he reached that stage, he’d either find somewhere off the side of a road to park up for the night, Sam and Dean huddled together in the backseat for warmth, or if the place looked too dangerous even for John Winchester, a cheap motel.

“Yeah, Clarence! How much longer? I’m bored out of my mind driving you three bozos around! And, I’m the one that’s got to drive back to An Spiorat before my boss throws his toys out the pram.”

What was it about Meg’s boss? The way that she’d be talking about him made it very clear that despite taking orders from Castiel, he was not the one pulling her strings. His and Dean’s assumption that Meg wasn’t working for any of the Archangels appeared to be correct. No doubt about it, Meg Masters was working for this lawyer Crowley. A cold chill totally unrelated to the need for some drugs ran down Sam’s spine. Despite appearances to the contrary, was the real answer here that Castiel was in league with the Coven against the Host?

At that thought, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The Coven was rumoured to have their own language as did Corca Oidce, according to the Grèigeach versions of the religious books. The words Sam couldn’t translate were in one of those two languages. At this second, if pushed to choose one, he’d go with it being the language of the Coven.

“We need to get further out. We’re too close to Gabriel for comfort. As you may have noticed, although he has his fun-loving side and tends not to want to get caught up in other people’s spats, Gabriel is not to be trifled with. He will be doing damage control, but he’ll also have his best tracker drones after us. The best we can do is put as much distance between him and us as we can before we stop.”

“Any idea how far is far enough? Or what we find when we get there? Can’t exactly sit our asses down in the middle of the desert and wait to get picked up, can we?”

“Honestly, Dean, I have no idea. I will know it when I see it unless of course you already have somewhere in mind?”

“Nah. Not been this far west in forever.”

Sam had let the conversation drift on without him after his initial outburst. He was still ruminating on the idea that the Coven was the real orchestrator of the mess he found himself in. The notion that Cas had no clue where they should stop dragged him back to the reality of the limo.

“Any chance there’s an old bus station or truck stop? Not the most original hiding place. Any simpleton could guess we’d pick that, but if we set things up right, we could get some early warning of an attack. At the worst we’d have shelter, at best we’d find some unused supplies.”

Even with the back of the passenger seat blocking his view, Sam could see Castiel’s shoulders drop. It did nothing to ease Sam’s headache or worsening nausea that the idea of being in league with a bunch of witches had brought on.

“You heard Sammy,” Dean said crouching in the large footwell and leaning forward to poke Meg in the back, “keep going till we find a disused truck stop.”

Meg tutted shaking her head, but she kept driving. Unfortunately for Sam, she was tapping out the most irritating tune against the steering wheel.

**************************************************************************************************

This wasn’t what he’d planned. Truthfully, Castiel hadn’t planned that far ahead. He had expected to break Sam and Dean out of their cell. He’d suspected that the security programme guarding the forcefield was set at a high enough level to confound most humans, but easy enough that Gabriel knew Castiel would be able to crack it easily enough. What Castiel hadn’t anticipated was that Gabriel would let them out of the building let alone make it out into the desert. Now he was out here, other than continuing his attempts to convince Dean that he was the Righteous Man, Castiel had no clue what to do next.

He believed what he’d said. Dean’s righteousness was not about how he indulged himself, but about the bright shining soul that lay underneath the swagger and distasteful pastimes. To play his role as the Immortal, Castiel did not have to like Dean or Sam for that matter. To say that he found Sam’s addiction distasteful was hypocritical given his own proclivities. However, there was also the matter of Sam having so quickly having worked his way up in Lucifer’s employ and then there was the incident in Mór Mears to overcome. Upgrading Sam’s abilities and providing him with the hints at who Meg was working for was a necessity for Sam to play his part. Without Sam’s human touch the anti-dote would never have the desired effect across the entire captive population of Wēalhaz.

Meg had been driving for another hour. It was a two-and a half-hour trip back to the outer zones of An Spiorat. With traffic usually nose to tail from the mid-zones through downtown, it could easily be up to four hours back to Roman Valente and Associates’ offices. Crowley would most likely blow a gasket about losing that much of Meg’s time. Probably about Castiel bailing on him too. The lawyer had yet to make his play, but there must be one. The Coven had never taken the words of Crëwr’s prophets too seriously, so it was most unlikely that they wanted to see the prophecy fulfilled. Castiel could, however, see the Coven wanting to be rid of his people’s influence on Wēalhaz.

“Meg, if you would be so kind as to stop whenever you see anything that fits the description Sam gave us a while ago. I believe we’re far enough outside the metropolis to be out of range for most of the kit Gabriel would waste on us. The distance should give us breathing space before he sends out a manual search party.”

Dean snorted from the backseat.

“Dude, you’re tripping if you think that after you painted a massive target on his back for the other Archangels to go at, Gabriel isn’t going to bring out the metaphorical…and literal…big guns.”

“Genius has a point. But…and here’s the shocker green eyes…Gabriel is a big enough boy to handle his brothers. He’s been at the game for, how long now, Clarence? Millennia?”

Castiel scowled at Meg. “Your assumption that Gabriel can handle Michael and Lucifer is incorrect. What Gabriel has been doing ever since our eldest brothers had their first fight is to run away and hide. That is how he’s survived so long. That’s why they let him get away with the sanctuary territory facade. Have you never studied any of the literature that the Coven has on the Host? You do know that the Coven has been aware of our existence since long before we ‘rescued’ the planet?”

“No need to use air quotes, Cas. You look like a dork. I think everyone in this car is aware that the Host might have saved the planet from destruction, but they sure as shit haven’t rescued the people.”

“Ah, so you do believe that it would be in the best interests of Wēalhaz for the Corca Oidce’s reign to end?”

“Any moron can see that needs to happen. I don’t see why I have to be the one putting my neck on the line to do it?”

Dean wasn’t being honest. Castiel could read beyond the words, the pursed lips, the hard stare, and the tensed muscles. It wasn’t putting himself in the firing line that Dean was afraid of. Dean hated not knowing what to do, and saving a whole planet was an overwhelming task that you didn’t suddenly know how to achieve. Given time, Dean would come around. Hopefully, the Marrigon would give them enough time for that to happen.

He sneaked a glance at Meg. Her knuckles were white gripping the steering wheel far tighter than was necessary. The jibe about the Coven had hit harder than he’d intended. He knew Meg was not fully Coven, she was a merc working for a lawyer, who hid his relationship to the Coven well from most people. Obviously, as Host, Castiel knew more about Fergus Macleod than Meg did. Yes, he knew the man’s real name. Crowley was a man with no time for his mother’s beliefs unless her position within the Inner Sanctum of the Coven could be worked to his advantage. Meg and Crowley were not all that dissimilar, Castiel concluded. They both would do whatever was necessary with whatever bedfellows that meant for personal gain. That meant all alliances were temporary, when they were no longer useful, they would be disposed of. In Crowley’s case literally. Castiel wondered if he could save Meg from herself?

“Over there! Up ahead on the left! I think that’s the spot we’re looking for!”

Yes, right on the cusp of the horizon on the left of the road was a collection of small buildings. No doubt in a state of disrepair, but that was to be expected. The location was ideal.

“Thank you, Sam. Meg, please drop us off at those buildings. Give my regards and my apologies to Crowley on your return. If it becomes necessary to call on him, I will make contact with you again.”

Meg shot him a dirty look, then stamped her foot to the floor sending the limo lurching forward as it sped towards their destination. She slammed the breaks on equally hard when they reached the buildings.

Ramshackle didn’t even begin to describe the three buildings. Ruins might have been a better description. Two of the buildings were missing parts of the walls. One had no roof. Another had more holes than roof, but a few shingles covered parts of the building. The only one that looked habitable had no coverings on the doors or windows, but all four walls were mostly intact, and the roof only had one or two small holes.

“No prizes for guessing which one I’m voting for,” Dean said wisecracked as he got out of the car.

Castiel could tell that Dean was on high alert, his military training kicking in. For all his faults, and there were many, Castiel had to hand it to Michael. His brother always turned out the best soldiers. His methods were so effective that Michael was often called upon by other members of the host to send his top instructors to other continents to train their armed forces.

Although they were the instinctual actions of a soldier, Castiel could tell that there was more to Dean being the first out of the car, eager to case their surroundings. He and Sam could easily do it with their abilities – even this far out from civilisation, but of course Sam wasn’t aware of that new level of ability quite yet, and besides Castiel wanted to observe the brothers behaving naturally. It would help build trust and a better understanding of why each of them was essential to Crëwr’s plans. For Dean playing scout was about protecting those he was travelling with. It was unnecessary. All four of them were combat trained in one way or another. Castiel grinned to himself at the first real-time evidence he had seen of the Righteous Man in action.

With Dean setting up the perimeter, it was down to him and Sam to sort out shelter and how they were to get food and water. First order of business - was the main building structurally sound enough for them to sleep in and use as a base camp of sorts? Once inside, Castiel was pleasantly surprised. The main building had once been a general store with a small kitchen attached for take-out orders. No-one would have called the building habitable, but it would give them shelter. If they had a source of power, the kitchen looked as though it could be made functional, if you weren’t too picky on the hygiene front. Unexpectedly, when Castiel tried the faucet, he found that the water hadn’t been turned off. Luck was also on their side when it came to the larger of the two outhouses. The places where it still had a roof were where the shelving was. From the looks of it some of the stuff on the shelves would be usable. The biggest surprise came when Sam went around the back and found a solar powered generator. As they set about clearing some space for their base, all three agreed that their accidental find would work well enough.

*****************************************************************************************************

It was not the meeting Crowley had planned for. Meeting Gabriel under these circumstances was an unexpected…pleasure? No! It was a royal pain in the ass! Good job he was the king of improvisation. All he had to do was find the right trade-off. What would hook the Archangel in? Surely, talking to somebody higher up the Host food-chain than Castiel ought to have its advantages. At a pinch, his existing offer of a haven in the True North might be a route that Gabriel would pursue for the three amigos. It would get them out of his hair and his brothers off his back if Crowley laid the trail at the Coven’s door, not Vesperien’s.

Uriel had no control over the areas further away from the borders with the Combined Territories, but the Coven had plenty of contacts living off the grid up there. It would be easy enough to spirit the three men away upcountry and from there they would be able to make their own decisions. Hell, with the right spin on the extraction, it could even play right into the hands of the religious nutjobs and their prophecies.

“Crowley of Crowley MacLeod and Craig. Attorney at Law from Keelams.”

“I’m aware. I have that pretty, but way too mouthy assistant of yours in custody for aiding and abetting the escape of suspected net terrorists.”

Gabriel looked far too pleased with himself. If he had Meg in custody that was because Meg had allowed it.

“This is the part,” Gabriel said steepling his hands and resting his chin on top, “where you tell me the real reason for your visit to the West.”

“I came to assist an associate struggling with a nasty precedent in International Law – my speciality.”

Gabriel remained impassive, waiting for the rest of Crowley’s explanation. No more was forthcoming. Crowley would never offer anyone questioning him more than the bare minimum. It was his first rodeo.”

“An associate at Roman Valente and Associates? Interesting. None of the partners have meetings scheduled with you any time in either the last few or the upcoming days. Try again.”

“Of course, they don’t! It’s off the books, over dinner at La Poissoniare.” That statement was the god’s honest truth. Crowley was due to have dinner with Dick Roman before he went back to Keelams. The meeting was part of the long-standing business ‘marriage of convenience’ between two of the best snake-oil salesmen Wēalhaz had ever produced. “I’m sure if you called, they’d happily confirm the booking.”

That’s when Gabriel glitches. The disruption was only for a fraction of a second. It was so short that Crowley wouldn’t be convinced that he saw it if he weren’t already suspicious that the Archangel had deigned to meet with him himself.

Crowley scooted to the edge of his chair, then leaned forward over the desk. He punched through the figure sitting opposite him. Thankfully, as expected, his fist didn’t connect with flesh and bone. Instead, his hand passed straight through the hologram, causing it to noticeably flicker for a few seconds before resetting itself.

Hologrammatic Gabriel smirks. “Totally proved my point. You were concerned enough to test whether I was foolish enough to be in the same room as you when you’ve got enhanced hand to hand combat skills chips installed. Now, shall we get out the real sheet music? Oooh, muffins…yes, thank you…Hey Crowley, would you like one? They’re double chocolate chip and raspberry white chocolate – the real organic deal, none of that foul-tasting synthetic mush.”

The blithering idiot was raving about muffins in an interrogation? Might as well call the meeting what it was. In an extremely rare occurrence, Crowley couldn’t see any better angle to work than his mother’s original plan. Rowena was going to be ecstatic. Damnit!

“No thanks. Not good for the old waistline…and no substitute for 150-year-old single malt scotch!”

“Your loss,” Gabriel shrugged peeling the wrapper off the muffin. “Like I was saying, give me the truth, Crowley. I know you and Roman act as covers for each other. I also know that Meg is on your payroll. As belligerent as he may be, Uriel can be cooperative with sharing information when he’s properly incentivised. So, number one why did Meg take a rogue member of the Host and two bounty hunters to an old desert truck stop? Number two, why did you need my good friend Dick to cover for you being here this time?”

Crowley could hear the air quotes around ‘good friend’ because let’s face it, Dick Roman was nobody’s friend. Never mind Dick, Crowley was in a hole he hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps for once in his life, it was time to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That was going to be mighty painful.

“I was expecting to meet with the Immortal, the Boy King, and the Righteous Man. If I had I would’ve offered them safe passage over the border and up into the wilds of the True North, in exchange for exclusive rights to the anti-dote that they’d produce to rid Wēalhaz of your kind.”

“Hmmm, tell you what. Why don’t I come meet with you in person? We can have a lovely little tête à tête over tea and cakes without all of this technology, eh?”

Aha! One Archangel caught hook line and sinker.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Sam gets an unexpected upgrade and a surprise contact  
> \- Dean gets antsy and is done with both Cas and Sam's shit  
> \- Cas has a few withdrawal issues

Meg’s fingers were tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. In the tense silence of the car, it was the only sound apart from the rumble of the tires on the potholed and cracked asphalt.

Sam had lost track of time. He had been aware that they’d been out of the city for a while now. The limo’s tires eating up the miles of the deserted freeway with nothing to hold your attention on either side of the road. Although, strangely it wasn’t a deadzone. He was picking up stray data feeds, images, and strange words that even the upgraded translator chip couldn’t understand. Meg drumming on the steering wheel was grating on him. His head ached. He was shivering despite the climate control in the car, but he couldn’t roll down the window because a) there was no obvious control for doing so, and b) the air in the desert was likely to be too noxious to breathe.

For years Sam had been lying to himself. Now, as Bobby would no doubt succinctly put it, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Sam wasn’t using Demonex solely for the enhanced netrunning abilities, although being able to do so at speed without a manual port had its advantages, he was using it because of the high he got from the amphetamine-like qualities of the drug. Gabriel had known that. He’d made sure that Sam received some generic amphetamine throughout his ‘stay’ at the Archangel’s facility. Not enough to give Sam a buzz, but enough to stave off any withdrawal symptoms. The doses only came every other day. It was the day that he should have had his dose, but Castiel had broken them out before Sam had been given it. Now the first signs of withdrawal were kicking in and the nanites would do nothing about it. They weren’t programmed to.

Sam wrapped his arms around himself and began rubbing at his triceps as you would in the dead of a Midwest winter in Choyotha. He let his head rest against the window. The solidity of the glass was grounding in a way that the soft wallowy seat wasn’t.

“How much longer?” He sounded like a whiny brat. Sam suspected that the tone of his whine hadn’t changed in twenty-odd years since he’d repeatedly annoyed John with the question, “are we there yet?” Knowing full well that there was rarely any ‘there’ until John couldn’t drive anymore. When he reached that stage, he’d either find somewhere off the side of a road to park up for the night, Sam and Dean huddled together in the backseat for warmth, or if the place looked too dangerous even for John Winchester, a cheap motel.

“Yeah, Clarence! How much longer? I’m bored out of my mind driving you three bozos around! And, I’m the one that’s got to drive back to An Spiorat before my boss throws his toys out the pram.”

What was it about Meg’s boss? The way that she’d be talking about him made it very clear that despite taking orders from Castiel, he was not the one pulling her strings. His and Dean’s assumption that Meg wasn’t working for any of the Archangels appeared to be correct. No doubt about it, Meg Masters was working for this lawyer Crowley. A cold chill totally unrelated to the need for some drugs ran down Sam’s spine. Despite appearances to the contrary, was the real answer here that Castiel was in league with the Coven against the Host?

At that thought, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The Coven was rumoured to have their own language as did Corca Oidce, according to the Grèigeach versions of the religious books. The words Sam couldn’t translate were in one of those two languages. At this second, if pushed to choose one, he’d go with it being the language of the Coven.

“We need to get further out. We’re too close to Gabriel for comfort. As you may have noticed, although he has his fun-loving side and tends not to want to get caught up in other people’s spats, Gabriel is not to be trifled with. He will be doing damage control, but he’ll also have his best tracker drones after us. The best we can do is put as much distance between him and us as we can before we stop.”

“Any idea how far is far enough? Or what we find when we get there? Can’t exactly sit our asses down in the middle of the desert and wait to get picked up, can we?”

“Honestly, Dean, I have no idea. I will know it when I see it unless of course you already have somewhere in mind?”

“Nah. Not been this far west in forever.”

Sam had let the conversation drift on without him after his initial outburst. He was still ruminating on the idea that the Coven was the real orchestrator of the mess he found himself in. The notion that Cas had no clue where they should stop dragged him back to the reality of the limo.

“Any chance there’s an old bus station or truck stop? Not the most original hiding place. Any simpleton could guess we’d pick that, but if we set things up right, we could get some early warning of an attack. At the worst we’d have shelter, at best we’d find some unused supplies.”

Even with the back of the passenger seat blocking his view, Sam could see Castiel’s shoulders drop. It did nothing to ease Sam’s headache or worsening nausea that the idea of being in league with a bunch of witches had brought on.

“You heard Sammy,” Dean said crouching in the large footwell and leaning forward to poke Meg in the back, “keep going till we find a disused truck stop.”

Meg tutted shaking her head, but she kept driving. Unfortunately for Sam, she was tapping out the most irritating tune against the steering wheel.

**************************************************************************************************

This wasn’t what he’d planned. Truthfully, Castiel hadn’t planned that far ahead. He had expected to break Sam and Dean out of their cell. He’d suspected that the security programme guarding the forcefield was set at a high enough level to confound most humans, but easy enough that Gabriel knew Castiel would be able to crack it easily enough. What Castiel hadn’t anticipated was that Gabriel would let them out of the building let alone make it out into the desert. Now he was out here, other than continuing his attempts to convince Dean that he was the Righteous Man, Castiel had no clue what to do next.

He believed what he’d said. Dean’s righteousness was not about how he indulged himself, but about the bright shining soul that lay underneath the swagger and distasteful pastimes. To play his role as the Immortal, Castiel did not have to like Dean or Sam for that matter. To say that he found Sam’s addiction distasteful was hypocritical given his own proclivities. However, there was also the matter of Sam having so quickly having worked his way up in Lucifer’s employ and then there was the incident in Mór Mears to overcome. Upgrading Sam’s abilities and providing him with the hints at who Meg was working for was a necessity for Sam to play his part. Without Sam’s human touch the anti-dote would never have the desired effect across the entire captive population of Wēalhaz.

Meg had been driving for another hour. It was a two-and a half-hour trip back to the outer zones of An Spiorat. With traffic usually nose to tail from the mid-zones through downtown, it could easily be up to four hours back to Roman Valente and Associates’ offices. Crowley would most likely blow a gasket about losing that much of Meg’s time. Probably about Castiel bailing on him too. The lawyer had yet to make his play, but there must be one. The Coven had never taken the words of Crëwr’s prophets too seriously, so it was most unlikely that they wanted to see the prophecy fulfilled. Castiel could, however, see the Coven wanting to be rid of his people’s influence on Wēalhaz.

“Meg, if you would be so kind as to stop whenever you see anything that fits the description Sam gave us a while ago. I believe we’re far enough outside the metropolis to be out of range for most of the kit Gabriel would waste on us. The distance should give us breathing space before he sends out a manual search party.”

Dean snorted from the backseat.

“Dude, you’re tripping if you think that after you painted a massive target on his back for the other Archangels to go at, Gabriel isn’t going to bring out the metaphorical…and literal…big guns.”

“Genius has a point. But…and here’s the shocker green eyes…Gabriel is a big enough boy to handle his brothers. He’s been at the game for, how long now, Clarence? Millennia?”

Castiel scowled at Meg. “Your assumption that Gabriel can handle Michael and Lucifer is incorrect. What Gabriel has been doing ever since our eldest brothers had their first fight is to run away and hide. That is how he’s survived so long. That’s why they let him get away with the sanctuary territory facade. Have you never studied any of the literature that the Coven has on the Host? You do know that the Coven has been aware of our existence since long before we ‘rescued’ the planet?”

“No need to use air quotes, Cas. You look like a dork. I think everyone in this car is aware that the Host might have saved the planet from destruction, but they sure as shit haven’t rescued the people.”

“Ah, so you do believe that it would be in the best interests of Wēalhaz for the Corca Oidce’s reign to end?”

“Any moron can see that needs to happen. I don’t see why I have to be the one putting my neck on the line to do it?”

Dean wasn’t being honest. Castiel could read beyond the words, the pursed lips, the hard stare, and the tensed muscles. It wasn’t putting himself in the firing line that Dean was afraid of. Dean hated not knowing what to do, and saving a whole planet was an overwhelming task that you didn’t suddenly know how to achieve. Given time, Dean would come around. Hopefully, the Marrigon would give them enough time for that to happen.

He sneaked a glance at Meg. Her knuckles were white gripping the steering wheel far tighter than was necessary. The jibe about the Coven had hit harder than he’d intended. He knew Meg was not fully Coven, she was a merc working for a lawyer, who hid his relationship to the Coven well from most people. Obviously, as Host, Castiel knew more about Fergus Macleod than Meg did. Yes, he knew the man’s real name. Crowley was a man with no time for his mother’s beliefs unless her position within the Inner Sanctum of the Coven could be worked to his advantage. Meg and Crowley were not all that dissimilar, Castiel concluded. They both would do whatever was necessary with whatever bedfellows that meant for personal gain. That meant all alliances were temporary, when they were no longer useful, they would be disposed of. In Crowley’s case literally. Castiel wondered if he could save Meg from herself?

“Over there! Up ahead on the left! I think that’s the spot we’re looking for!”

Yes, right on the cusp of the horizon on the left of the road was a collection of small buildings. No doubt in a state of disrepair, but that was to be expected. The location was ideal.

“Thank you, Sam. Meg, please drop us off at those buildings. Give my regards and my apologies to Crowley on your return. If it becomes necessary to call on him, I will make contact with you again.”

Meg shot him a dirty look, then stamped her foot to the floor sending the limo lurching forward as it sped towards their destination. She slammed the breaks on equally hard when they reached the buildings.

Ramshackle didn’t even begin to describe the three buildings. Ruins might have been a better description. Two of the buildings were missing parts of the walls. One had no roof. Another had more holes than roof, but a few shingles covered parts of the building. The only one that looked habitable had no coverings on the doors or windows, but all four walls were mostly intact, and the roof only had one or two small holes.

“No prizes for guessing which one I’m voting for,” Dean said wisecracked as he got out of the car.

Castiel could tell that Dean was on high alert, his military training kicking in. For all his faults, and there were many, Castiel had to hand it to Michael. His brother always turned out the best soldiers. His methods were so effective that Michael was often called upon by other members of the host to send his top instructors to other continents to train their armed forces.

Although they were the instinctual actions of a soldier, Castiel could tell that there was more to Dean being the first out of the car, eager to case their surroundings. He and Sam could easily do it with their abilities – even this far out from civilisation, but of course Sam wasn’t aware of that new level of ability quite yet, and besides Castiel wanted to observe the brothers behaving naturally. It would help build trust and a better understanding of why each of them was essential to Crëwr’s plans. For Dean playing scout was about protecting those he was travelling with. It was unnecessary. All four of them were combat trained in one way or another. Castiel grinned to himself at the first real-time evidence he had seen of the Righteous Man in action.

With Dean setting up the perimeter, it was down to him and Sam to sort out shelter and how they were to get food and water. First order of business - was the main building structurally sound enough for them to sleep in and use as a base camp of sorts? Once inside, Castiel was pleasantly surprised. The main building had once been a general store with a small kitchen attached for take-out orders. No-one would have called the building habitable, but it would give them shelter. If they had a source of power, the kitchen looked as though it could be made functional, if you weren’t too picky on the hygiene front. Unexpectedly, when Castiel tried the faucet, he found that the water hadn’t been turned off. Luck was also on their side when it came to the larger of the two outhouses. The places where it still had a roof were where the shelving was. From the looks of it some of the stuff on the shelves would be usable. The biggest surprise came when Sam went around the back and found a solar powered generator. As they set about clearing some space for their base, all three agreed that their accidental find would work well enough.

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It was not the meeting Crowley had planned for. Meeting Gabriel under these circumstances was an unexpected…pleasure? No! It was a royal pain in the ass! Good job he was the king of improvisation. All he had to do was find the right trade-off. What would hook the Archangel in? Surely, talking to somebody higher up the Host food-chain than Castiel ought to have its advantages. At a pinch, his existing offer of a haven in the True North might be a route that Gabriel would pursue for the three amigos. It would get them out of his hair and his brothers off his back if Crowley laid the trail at the Coven’s door, not Vesperien’s.

Uriel had no control over the areas further away from the borders with the Combined Territories, but the Coven had plenty of contacts living off the grid up there. It would be easy enough to spirit the three men away upcountry and from there they would be able to make their own decisions. Hell, with the right spin on the extraction, it could even play right into the hands of the religious nutjobs and their prophecies.

“Crowley of Crowley MacLeod and Craig. Attorney at Law from Keelams.”

“I’m aware. I have that pretty, but way too mouthy assistant of yours in custody for aiding and abetting the escape of suspected net terrorists.”

Gabriel looked far too pleased with himself. If he had Meg in custody that was because Meg had allowed it.

“This is the part,” Gabriel said steepling his hands and resting his chin on top, “where you tell me the real reason for your visit to the West.”

“I came to assist an associate struggling with a nasty precedent in International Law – my speciality.”

Gabriel remained impassive, waiting for the rest of Crowley’s explanation. No more was forthcoming. Crowley would never offer anyone questioning him more than the bare minimum. It was his first rodeo.”

“An associate at Roman Valente and Associates? Interesting. None of the partners have meetings scheduled with you any time in either the last few or the upcoming days. Try again.”

“Of course, they don’t! It’s off the books, over dinner at La Poissoniare.” That statement was the god’s honest truth. Crowley was due to have dinner with Dick Roman before he went back to Keelams. The meeting was part of the long-standing business ‘marriage of convenience’ between two of the best snake-oil salesmen Wēalhaz had ever produced. “I’m sure if you called, they’d happily confirm the booking.”

That’s when Gabriel glitches. The disruption was only for a fraction of a second. It was so short that Crowley wouldn’t be convinced that he saw it if he weren’t already suspicious that the Archangel had deigned to meet with him himself.

Crowley scooted to the edge of his chair, then leaned forward over the desk. He punched through the figure sitting opposite him. Thankfully, as expected, his fist didn’t connect with flesh and bone. Instead, his hand passed straight through the hologram, causing it to noticeably flicker for a few seconds before resetting itself.

Hologrammatic Gabriel smirks. “Totally proved my point. You were concerned enough to test whether I was foolish enough to be in the same room as you when you’ve got enhanced hand to hand combat skills chips installed. Now, shall we get out the real sheet music? Oooh, muffins…yes, thank you…Hey Crowley, would you like one? They’re double chocolate chip and raspberry white chocolate – the real organic deal, none of that foul-tasting synthetic mush.”

The blithering idiot was raving about muffins in an interrogation? Might as well call the meeting what it was. In an extremely rare occurrence, Crowley couldn’t see any better angle to work than his mother’s original plan. Rowena was going to be ecstatic. Damnit!

“No thanks. Not good for the old waistline…and no substitute for 150-year-old single malt scotch!”

“Your loss,” Gabriel shrugged peeling the wrapper off the muffin. “Like I was saying, give me the truth, Crowley. I know you and Roman act as covers for each other. I also know that Meg is on your payroll. As belligerent as he may be, Uriel can be cooperative with sharing information when he’s properly incentivised. So, number one why did Meg take a rogue member of the Host and two bounty hunters to an old desert truck stop? Number two, why did you need my good friend Dick to cover for you being here this time?”

Crowley could hear the air quotes around ‘good friend’ because let’s face it, Dick Roman was nobody’s friend. Never mind Dick, Crowley was in a hole he hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps for once in his life, it was time to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That was going to be mighty painful.

“I was expecting to meet with the Immortal, the Boy King, and the Righteous Man. If I had I would’ve offered them safe passage over the border and up into the wilds of the True North, in exchange for exclusive rights to the anti-dote that they’d produce to rid Wēalhaz of your kind.”

“Hmmm, tell you what. Why don’t I come meet with you in person? We can have a lovely little tête à tête over tea and cakes without all of this technology, eh?”

Aha! One Archangel caught hook line and sinker.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Sam lets on who their new 'helper' is  
> \- Castiel balks at who he'll have to approach from the Coven's Inner Sanctum  
> \- Dean is still fed up with the pair of them, but at least he gets the power sorted when Sam can't

“So, get this! I can connect anywhere without anything…and I got the recipe for something that’ll help Cas and me…and I spoke with Charlie Bradbury…”

“Her Highness? The Queen of Moons? You sure you’re feeling ok, Sam? Standing out in the sum like that without any protection can addle the brain. The heat hasn’t scrambled any of your chips, has it?”

Sam rolled his eyes at an overprotective Dean. “I’m fine, Dean!”

“Yeah, sure you are. That’s why after I’d dealt with the shaking, puking, then comatose angel over there, I found you standing out in the sun doing your best statue impression. You barely helped me get you inside – good thing my chrome can lift heavy weights and not damage the weapon.”

“I AM FINE” Sam repeated through gritted teeth before settling for throwing bitchface no.7 at Dean. “I was talking with Charlie about the prophecies, about what she can do to help us.”

“This isn’t sounding much like YOU’RE FINE. You completely sold on that hoodoo stuff now as well?”

“Dean, Sam is correct. He should now be capable of making a connection to the net at any time he wishes without a physical port and, more importantly without needing the Demonex.”

Dean whirled around to face Cas. “You knew! This shit is what you were talking about before? The stuff you refused to discuss without Sam? Sonovabitch!”

“It is all part of his destiny. Nothing to get upset about.” Castiel turned his attention to Sam. “What did Charlie offer?”

“Free access to her distribution systems, both globally on the planet and for all offworld stations and colonies.”

Nobody ever offered anything for free. There would be a catch somewhere along the line.

“And…this is the seriously cool part – she offered to give us all the codes to slip unnoticed into any Host-run company we want.”

“Any?”

“Yup!” Sam popped the ‘p’. “Could probably get us into a few governmental systems too, if we needed – er I’m sort of guessing on that one, but if she can get in and out of MWC without security knowing she’s been there, I can’t imagine the government systems of the Combined Territories being any better defended.”

Dean could see the catch coming a mile off. Why didn’t Sam?

“We may have to take her up on her offer, Dean. It might be best if you got to know Charlie. It will settle your concerns. The recipe, Sam. Do we have everything we need? As Dean hinted, I have been…unwell…this vessel appears to be rejecting a lack of chemical stimulation.”

Dean found himself copying Castiel’s patented inquisitive puppy head tilt.

“Yeah, we do. I think there’s enough equipment in the kitchen we can cobble together if we can get enough heat…”

“No. Bitch! Just no! We are not wasting what little juice I have left in this thing on getting you two morons high!” Dean waved his arm in Sam’s face.

“Jerk! This isn’t about getting high. It’s about mitigating the shaking, the headaches, the vomiting – until neither of us is dependent on the synthetics anymore.”

“Oh.” Not much of a witty comeback. So, sue him, he was out of sorts and hadn’t had enough time to do a thorough search for the map…”Uh, this constantly connected thing? Could you use it to accurately locate us, without alerting nosy Archangels and their minions?”

“Should be able to. Why?”

“Because I’m gonna plan us a route up to a remote border crossing with the True North. Cas is gonna find a way to set up a meeting with Crowley…”

“An active member of the Coven is a better choice, I believe,” Castiel interrupted.

“What he said,” Dean continued dismissing Castiel’s comment with a wave of his good hand. “While you get to doing your cooking thing.”

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Sam and Dean claimed that they had hidden his stash. How stupid did they think he was? He had more Nephilt Weed than they thought. Now that he’d enough water and the first dose of Sam’s substitute, he was lucid enough to remember that he had more than one hiding place. It was highly unlikely that even between them they would have found them all. The kick in the pants was that he couldn’t remember every hiding place. No point even bothering with the obvious ones. Sam especially would have worked out where they were. If he retraced his steps from when he began hiding batches of the leaves perhaps it would jog his memory. Castiel hoped so.

The communications were coming thick and fast. All across Host radio there was more activity than usual. Not so much activity that Castiel would call it panic, but the unease his brothers and sisters shared was easily transferred through the waves of communication. He’d been off the grid for several weeks now. The chatter shouldn’t have been about his alter-egos because none of them had posted anything new. Gabriel would have used the separate channel that the four Archangels shared to keep the other three posted and ordered a complete radio silence from his followers about Castiel, Dean and Sam. Except, that wasn’t what was happening at all. The airwaves were alight with mentions of how Jimmy, Emmanuel and Steve were broadcasting from an undisclosed location offworld. Interestingly the one location everyone had ruled out was Moondoor.

Castiel began at the entrance to the main building. Years ago, he had enjoyed always having that connection to the others, but that was when their father was around, when Crëwr gave out his commandments and they filtered down through the ranks. Then Castiel had fulfilled his garrison duties gladly, without question. Now, as he walked the rooms and the corridors, he recalled those happier times before the Host had come to Wēalhaz. Focusing on those memories helped him tune out all but the most familiar of voices, which he allowed to drift through his consciousness like welcome old friends. None of that calmed his agitation enough that he wasn’t elated to find a few Nephilt leaves wrapped in an old magazine and shoved under the flooring in the back corner of the main stockroom, below the last shelf of the storage racking. Once the weed hit his system, he could shift past the radio noise and target the names and last known locations of all the members of the Inner Sanctum. He should have remembered to do this before he’d left Gabriel’s where it was so much easier to access the net and the archives. Castiel kind of envied Sam’s newfound ability. Ironic that his grace was enough to enhance Sam’s uplink and processing speeds so he no longer needed external stimuli, yet he couldn’t grant himself the same ease of connectivity.

Castiel patted his pockets. He knew he had remembered to pick up some paper and a lighter. In the dark and the airless heat of the storage room, the weed had dried out, not quite to where he’d ideally have liked it to be for maximum ease and effect, but enough that he could smoke it. He crouched down in front of the storage rack, carefully laying down a piece of discarded packing on the wire shelf. On top of that he placed the paper and began to create a couple of roll-ups. This room was out of the way enough that he would have time to do a little research before the other two missed and then found him. One had better be enough. He tucked the second roll-up in his shirt pocket for another moment of need.

Castiel grimaced at the state of the floor, which was covered in the dried residue of substances he didn’t want to think about. It was dirtier than the main room they had taken to living in by a wide margin. He could make do. Unenthusiastically Castiel lowered himself into his favourite meditation position. While he waited for the effects of the weed to kick in, he deliberately slowed his breathing. Little by little the babble of the Host radio dimmed. Castiel lost himself in the quiet of the Wēalhaz occultic sects archives and the Host’s most secret records.

Two hours later Castiel let out a howl of exasperation. He’d downloaded everything he could find on the Inner Sanctum. He had sent a couple of heavily encrypted messages to Balthazar. It made no sense. His findings were illogical and in contradiction of everything he thought he knew about the Coven and their distaste for the ways of modern life. The Coven made as much use of the net and the opportunities afforded by 24/7 connectivity as anyone else. The unpalatable truth was that if Castiel wanted to avoid dealing with Crowley, aka Fergus MacLeod, only one name consistently came close to meeting his criteria. Except, the name belonged to an AI program and someone who, if Crowley hadn’t fallen far from the tree, would be untrustworthy even for a witch. The longest serving, most universally well-respected member of the Inner Sanctum was Rowena MacLeod. Well shit!

In the desperate hope that Balthazar would respond with some better news, Castiel left his hiding place. The thought passed fleetingly through his brain, with drugs on short supply, could they use any of the plants around them to distil what before the invention of synthalcohol had been called moonshine. Surely with his and Sam’s skills at cooking up another sort of recipe, it wouldn’t be too hard.

As much as he would have liked to move on from this disused truck stop sooner rather than later – they’d already spent three days there – Castiel wanted to stay put until he had contact with the Coven sorted.

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“What the fuck, dude?” The exclamation didn’t come out as unmanly squeak, nor did Dean jump out of his skin when Cas crept up behind him. He wasn’t so engrossed in scribbling down key coordinates of the route he’d created to throw anyone following them off the scent, that he hadn’t known that Cas was behind him.

“My apologies, Dean”

Dude didn’t look all that apologetic.

“Personal space. We’ve talked about this before. You gotta allow other people space. You can’t get so close to someone…unless they give you permission.”

What, with the head tilt again? Was he not speaking Escarian suddenly, or had the translator chip the Host must have in that vessel given up the ghost?

“Cas, step back, dude. Seriously!”

Cas didn’t step away. His head cocked to one side, he stepped around Dean to look at the scraps of paper on the old shop counter, but he was as physically close to Dean as he had been standing behind him. For once in his life, Dean took the higher ground. Instinct was telling him to shove Castiel away from him, instead Dean took a couple of large sidesteps.

“Why do these coordinates appear to take us in the wrong direction. I thought we were heading for the True North?”

“Trust me on this, Cas. These are creating the route we want people to think we’ve taken. According to Sam, Charlie’s offered her services to cover our real tracks. We give her the false route, she makes it look like we’re on it, but trying to cover our tracks, meanwhile we blaze a zig zag trail through the West, until we get close enough to the border, then we work our way into the Midwest and hop the line at Savisak. Think your contact can swing getting us some transport then spirit us over the border and upcountry?”

That look didn’t fill him with confidence. Cas had promised that he’d get things squared away with the Coven.

“What gives?”

“What do you mean ‘what gives’? I don’t understand, Dean.”

Dean backed away from the counter. If he stayed that close to the Host, he was going to deck him. The awkwardness and occasional lack of understanding human ways was often endearing, but not when Dean had the suspicion he was being played. He was a good enough hustler himself to recognise when someone was trying to hustle him. Cas was.

“You’ve not kept your end of the deal, have you?”

Cas began to study the floor. “It’s not that I haven’t kept it, Dean. It’s…it’s…well it’s more complicated than I anticipated. The Inner Sanctum has dwindled in numbers since I last had any dealings with them. The most trustworthy member that is still ‘alive’ is encoded into an AI program in the True North. Dealing with an AI isn’t ideal…”

Dean hummed his agreement. He trusted people who uploaded themselves to an AI less than he trusted pompous rich assholes who wore sleeves or simulants. Present company didn’t count because the Host were a whole different kettle of fish.

“…however, in this case, there’s an added layer of complexity…”

“Spit it out, Cas,” Dean snapped. Putting off the news wasn’t going to lessen the blow.

Cas looked up, his bright blue eyes locking gaze with Dean’s green and green tinted ones. His lips were drawn into a thin line. They stayed like that for several seconds before Cas dealt the blow that he’d been unwilling to dole out.

“The Inner Sanctum member of the Coven most likely to help us out without deceit or demanding too high a price in return is the AI of Rowena MacLeod – mother of one Fergus MacLeod…”

“Shit – Crowley!”

Cas nodded solemnly.

“The woman who spawned that untrustworthy son of a bitch is our best bet!”

Irritatingly, Cas simply nodded again.

“Ok, I get the scale of the problem, but beggars can’t be choosers,” Dean shrugged looking more nonchalant than he felt. They were going to be double crossed and stitched up left right and centre, weren’t they? Might as well be making a deal with the devil as with that witch and her slimy progeny. An alternative idea struck him. “Can’t we ditch them and get Charlie to help? At least Red has always been a thorn in the Host’s side.”

“She’s been meddling enough without talking to us, Dean. Speak with Sam. Ask him what he knows about the resurgence in activity from my ‘deceased’ alter egos. No, Rowena is our best shot. I’m…um…waiting to get a sign from a friend over the Host Radio that he’s got some information for me. Then, I’ll make contact. I want to be as prepared as possible before I talk to her.”

The feeling that what Castiel was about to do was bad idea wouldn’t go away. He understood Castiel’s concern about Charlie. Sticking her oar in unbidden wasn’t good manners. It was also unsettling that she could reach into Sam’s mind so easily. Dean didn’t fully understand the ins and outs of the finer points of unported net connectivity, but he knew that the further away from civilisation they were the weaker the signal should have been. Also, shouldn’t Sam have had defence programmes in place? If he had, it was perturbing that she’d simply skated through them without Sam being any the wiser. Another thing to bring up with Sam when they spoke. The trouble was, no matter how much he wanted to distrust Celeste Middleton, aka Her Highness the Queen of Moons, aka Charlie Bradbury, Dean deemed her a better bet than Rowena MacLeod.

****************************************************************************************************

Sam prodded at the interface between the cable and the solar panels. Dean was better than him when it came to this sort of technical stuff, but he’d seen the tense body language between Dean and Cas when he’d gone to enter the shop to ask Dean for help. Immediately, he’d decided against it and plumped, instead, for using his connection to find the manuals for the panels in the archives of Sphere House Systems. He was dreading the flood of adverts he’d now be getting for Sphere House Systems’s products until he found a way of shutting them out. It was a curse of always being connected – unless he consciously worked to hide his presence, he was constantly bombarded with data from companies trying to hawk their products and services. When he got a breather, he’d figure out how to perpetually hide his presence. For now, he’d have to deal.

A spark of electricity brought his attention back to the interface. The manuals stated that it was easy to upgrade the flow between the panel and the power cables. Easy for whom? Slot A into C bypassing B and then switch D to overdrive he could do. A trained chimp could follow those instructions – not that it was ethical to train chimps to do tasks like that, but the point was valid. The task should have been easy. Sam couldn’t even blame it on the DTs. The recipe Charlie had shared worked well enough that he no longer felt any need. Cas, well Cas’s vessel, seemed free of symptoms too. No. There was some other reason Sam couldn’t get the panels to do what he wanted. He had no idea what yet, and he wasn’t a quitter, so he’d figure it out. Maybe if he checked the old support boards? If one person had a problem with the given instructions, it was a safe assumption other people had too.

“Yo, Sammy! What are you up to out here?”

Ever since his encounter with Charlie, Dean had been watching Sam like he was going to break at any moment.

“Upping the power supply into the biggest outhouse. The kitchen can cope with the lab set-up I’ve built so far, but we can’t do anything else out of it at the same time.”

“Like what? We ain’t got any food that we can cook.”

“Like…um…an experiment?”

As well as wanting to do the fix himself, Sam had hoped to avoid Cas or Dean asking questions about what he was up to until he was more certain about what he was doing. Charlie had used the word poison when they’d been discussing the Host’s effect on Wēalhaz. Sam had never thought about them in that way before. Since then he’d had poison stuck in his head to the degree he had even begun to wonder if Charlie had used the word deliberately. For every poison, Sam reasoned, there was an anti-dote. If he could create the anti-dote to the Host’s influence over humans and get it distributed every place that Wēalhaz had populated, would it give the people what they needed to overthrow the Host?

“Bit old for science experiments, Sammy. Your timing sucks too! Cas knows who to contact to get us outta here. Doubt you’ll have much time to get it set up and working.”

Sam chose to ignore Dean. It’d only lead to the usual round of time-wasting when he had better things to do without Dean looking over his shoulder. He started fiddling with the interface again.

“Move over, Sasquatch. You’ve got those two switches ass about face.”

Dean knelt and nudged Sam out of the way. To Sam’s dismay, Dean solved the problem in under ten seconds. An embarrassed Sam buried his face in his hands while he mumbled his thanks to his brother. At least now, Dean would get back to whatever he was supposed to be doing and Sam could start getting his new laboratory into shape. Only Dean didn’t go away, he followed Sam back into the outhouse and leaned against the wall with a cocky grin on his face.

“I give in! What’s got you so chipper?” Sam pottered around moving debris off surfaces, inspecting the cracks in them and assessing which was the best location in the building to set up. He’d need one area to pull together the equipment. Another to store what meagre ingredients he could gather. Another where he could throw up a projection of the results and study them.

“I’m peppy – I don’t do chipper. Didn’t you hear me? Cas has a name. I got the routes planned out. All they gotta do is get us some transport and we’re out of this godforsaken dump.”

“We’ve stayed in worse when we were kids.” Sam had preferred abandoned buildings to the pay by the hour infested motels John Winchester had used when he’d dragged his two sons wherever bounty hunting took him. Dust and decay were easier to deal with than unsanitary bathrooms and kitchens and bedlinen that didn’t look like it had seen any form of detergent in weeks, maybe even months.

“You’re taking this awful serious, Sammy. What’s going on in that oversized nerd brain of yours?”

“A throwaway comment from Charlie got me thinking about how to stop the Host.”

“Couldn’t it wait?”

Probably, but he was bored as shit with nothing to do. The biggest payday of his life, the chances or ever getting to take Eileen out on a date had all slipped away at the revelation that he was supposed to be one of the Saviours of Wēalhaz. Now he didn’t crave the Demonex, or any other stimulant, and his head was constantly bombarded with crap until he’d properly learned to block it out, he need to have projects to focus on. He had to keep his brain active. The anti-dote to the Host was good for keeping him occupied and not brooding. Because if Sam Winchester was good at anything other than being smart, it was brooding.

Sam scowled at his brother, “Nope.” He wasn’t going to elaborate any further. He didn’t have much else to tell Dean. Until he had a better idea of what it would take to create a viable anti-dote, there wasn’t any point in saying anything. “If you’re going to stand there and watch, zip it. Not a word out of you.” Mother-hen mode or not, Dean couldn’t stay silent for long. Within minutes he’d be telling Sam how he was doing whatever it was wrong and that Dean knew best how to do it.

“Bitch!”

Sam had won this round. He did a little victory dance as he crowed, “See ya later, jerk!”

To Sam’s dismay though, later didn’t come. Dean had no sooner left him to his own devices when one of Dean’s perimeter alarms went off. Someone was coming. A random traveller passing by the truck stop on the way to god knows where, or…or an elite forces team come to take them out. Because, after their escape from Vesperien in An Spiorat Sam couldn’t see any of the Archangels wanting to capture them alive – especially out here where there were no witnesses except the stray gecko.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Lucifer catches up with Team Free Will  
> \- Rescue comes from an unlikely and unpalatable source

Dean sprinted away from the outhouse. The alarm had come from the sensor he’d set up next to the highway. Chances were it wasn’t anything to bother them, seeing as whatever was approaching was travelling towards the coast, not inland. He wasn’t going to take any chances though. Dean found focused his ocular implant on the road as he ran to the most suitable shelter that he could find which afforded him a clear view. The sensor was set to go off when anything larger than a sedan or small crossover vehicle was three miles away from them. Too far away for Dean to have a clear visual, but close enough that if there was more than one vehicle, he’d be able to spot the dust they kicked up from the desert highway. The patch of rough Greasewood wasn’t great camouflage but if he lay flat it would give him some protection.

Flinging himself down into the prone position, Dean retargeted his implant. No dust. If only he’d got that upgrade, the one he’d been putting off in lieu of porn and…oh yeah, eating. If he’d got the latest functionality for the implant, he’d be better able to see at that distance. Not like he was ever likely to get it either. Even if by some miracle, they survived long enough to get upcountry in the True North, it wasn’t like there were going to be easily accessible backstreet clinics that he could go to. Hell, even if there were, he’d not have the money to pay for it. Not a carbon! The second he’d hitched his wagon to Castiel’s the seven-figure bounty had evaporated. Being the ‘Righteous Man’ sucked balls.

Whoever or whatever was approaching, it wasn’t a cavalcade. Didn’t mean it wasn’t a task force come to gank them. How many men did it take to kill three people? A single semi-armoured carrier would do the job and be small enough not to rake up a visible dust cloud. Dean kept his eyes glued until it came into view. A single SUV. A black SUV. The chances of the vehicle being random passing traffic were zero. Now the question was, who was on their way?

Dean jumped to his feet, running back to where he’d last seen Sam.

“Sam! Need your skills,” he yelled bursting into the outhouse.

“Who is it, Dean? What tripped…”

“Dean? Sam? Are you both in here? One of the perimeter alarms went off. Do…”

Dean rolled his eyes. that was all he needed a flapping angel. How this guy had ever been a warrior for the Host was beyond Dean. No time to ponder the vagaries of what had passed for a Host soldier centuries ago. He needed to know who was out there, stat!

“Yes, Cas. We’re both in here.” Dean turned his attention back to Sam. “Do you have any way to hack into traffic systems? See if we can track the SUV. Where’s it come from? Who it is registered to?”

“I can hack the systems – piece of cake. How much use they’ll be out here, I don’t know. Closer to a city and all the surveillance cameras we’d have more luck. There’s no guarantee that there are any out here, let alone that they have a live feed.”

Dean thought about it for a second. “Pull up a map as well. See if we can’t…”

“I can get the one you’ve been working on if that would free up Sam’s focus on the traffic systems.”

Probably a good thing to keep Cas busy and feeling useful. “Thanks, Cas.”

Beside him, Sam groaned.

“Fucking deep-shield programs. Why the fuck do they have these as protection – it’s only a traffic surveillance…ah…oops! Um…Dean, the only cameras around aren’t civilian ones. They’re…they’re military ones…with a direct link to MWC in Mór Mears. They don’t show up on any of the West’s traffic maps.”

Before either of the brothers had a chance to digest that information Cas returned, all the colour drained from his face. “I got the map…but I think that we…”

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? One errant brother who’s insistent on being a pain in my ass and should have been my trusted XO. So, I’m guessing the other one with the bad cybernetic job that reeks of the Northeast’s army is the hunter Michael commissioned and Samuel’s older brother.

No prizes for guessing who the SUV belonged to now – Lucifer. Once again, an Archangel had got the better of them.

****************************************************************************************************

This was bad. Worse than he had expected. There’d been no chatter over the airwaves that had given any hint that the Archangel of the Midwest was on the move. Had all four of his brothers turned up, it wouldn’t have been fun, but it would have been better than this. Father, if Michael had been with Lucifer Castiel would have felt calmer. Lucifer on his on spelt trouble with a capital T.

With far more authority than he felt, Castiel questioned his brother. “Lucifer. Not going to pretend it’s a pleasure. We both know it isn’t. What about this situation demanded your personal attention?”

“Castiel. You really think I would leave something as important as this up to that incompetent buffoon who’s been shielding you for years?”

“I hardly call what Gabriel did for me as shielding. He did no more for me than any other individual claiming sanctuary in the West.”

“But you don’t deny that he’s an incompetent buffoon who let you three escape and then pals up with that disgrace of a witch’s spawn lawyer, Crowley.” Lucifer spat as he said Crowley’s name.

Shrewd enough not to want to aggravate his brother, Castiel stated, “Gabriel is Gabriel. He prefers not to pick a side. You know that is how he has always been, since you and Michael had your first…”

Lucifer dismissively waved Castiel quiet. “It seems Michael and I see eye to eye on the matter of YOUR rebellion, little brother. Are you seriously waiting for daddy to reappear and tell you what to do? Still caught up in believing that what you are doing is Father’s will for this human infested planet.”

Castiel took two steps back, away from Lucifer.

“Oh, put the peashooter down, little boy. The standard issue arm Michael gives you grunts is useless against me. Funny, because if you’d done your homework correctly, you’d have worked out it’s useless against Castiel too. Yes, even if you shoot us in the stack. Now, Samuel, what lies has my renegade brother been spinning that have you acting out? You were such a loyal employee. The brightest and best I’ve seen in generations. Such a shame you got yourself blown up.”

Lucifer’s sneer at Sam made the hackles on Castiel’s neck stand up. He could see Dean debating whether the slur against his cybernetic arm was correct. Dean taking a pot-shot at Lucifer would only buy them a second or two at the most. Castiel implored Dean to do as Lucifer told him and lower his weapon. The Archangel was dangerous enough without Dean riling him up any further.

As Dean grudgingly dropped his arm to his side, Castiel focused on Sam’s reaction to his old boss. Unnervingly cold and detached was the best description Castiel could come up with.

“No point crying over spilled milk, but I did have such great plans for you. Should have listened to my instinct and had you ‘die on the operating table’ from your injuries. A mercy killing.” Lucifer made sure to make eye contact with all of them before he continued, “I won’t make the same mistake twice. But first, we need to quell the annoying resurgence in Castiel’s net presence. I had thought,” Lucifer took in the dilapidated surroundings, “you were doing this yourself. If this is where you chose to hide, I guess not. Unless…Castiel? Did you…did you upgrade him?”

Lucifer’s eyes flashed red at Castiel while he pointed at Sam.

“No idea what you’re talking about, buddy!”

“Dean!”

He didn’t need Dean’s temper getting the best of him. It might only be a small chance, but if they could keep Lucifer talking, he might give himself away. Despite their many obvious differences, there was one major similarity between Lucifer and Gabriel – they were both show-offs. Give them an opportunity to brag about how clever they were, and neither could refuse it. Lucifer had turned up without any entourage. He would never do the dirty work himself, preferring to distance himself from the blood and gore, even if it were clear that he was the one behind the scenes pulling the strings. The threats of killing them were empty for now. Castiel didn’t buy that it was only about Charlie’s uncalled for interference. Lucifer was up to something and the three Saviours, Charlie and Gabriel were disposable pieces in the bigger game.

As he’d expected, against what he had hoped would happen, Dean didn’t back down. As glorious as it was to watch the righteous fury, Castiel willed Dean to show an ounce of concern for self-preservation.

“No-one threatens, Sammy. You hear me? Archangel or not, I will send your skanky ass to hell if you so much as look at my brother wrong.”

“Dean!” This time it was Sam attempting to keep the peace. “I’m ok. Cas is ok. You don’t need to wind him up needlessly.”

Castiel marvelled at how Sam handled his brother. Dean spat an invective at Lucifer but adopted a less confrontational stance.

“I’ll try that again, Castiel. Did you give this pathetic excuse for a human being access to technology that he shouldn’t have?”

It was disingenuous because he left out pertinent details, but Castiel’s response to his brother was the truth, “No, Sam does not have any technology that has been forbidden for humans.” Lucifer wouldn’t believe that was the whole truth, he was far too intelligent for that, but it would buy them a few seconds more which could prove crucial.

Castiel moved in front of the Winchester brothers to face off against his brother. If Lucifer so chose, he could evaporate Castiel in the blink of an eye and equally quickly immobilise Sam and Dean. Castiel was banking on his brother wanting to string things out for his own sadistic pleasure first.

Castiel kept his hands behind his back, standing in the rest position taught to the soldiers of Wēalhaz. Sam was smart. On the surface at least, Sam had his wits about him and unlike Dean wasn’t letting his emotions get the better of him. Sam was their best hope for calling for help. That he could distract Lucifer long enough for anyone to get there was a long shot, but Castiel might be able to buy them enough time for their SOS to reach Gabriel. Castiel made a call for back-up hand signal. If Sam didn’t recognise it, he’d be bound to look it up. All he could do now was make the play for time, hoping Sam did his bit in the Hail Mary pass.

Fortunately for the Saviours of Wēalhaz, Lucifer did want to toy with them for his own sadistic pleasure. Mercifully, Lucifer liked to draw these things out, addicted to the sound of his own voice. He droned on about the aggravation Castiel’s actions had caused and how, although no damage to his stranglehold on the Midwest had occurred, he was not about to let some junior angel with daddy issues undo everything he’d achieved. Castiel simply stood there and took the abuse. He was relieved when, way too soon for anyone to have responded to a message, if Sam had understood his hand signals and sent out a distress call, another of Dean’s perimeter alarms went off. This time, whatever was on the road was coming from the direction of An Spriorat. 

“How poetic! The cavalry is here.”

That was too fast. Gabriel, because Castiel assumed that it was Gabriel on his way to chew him out over his escape, was unwittingly walking headlong into a trap. The best they could hope for was that they had picked up Sam’s transmission on their way. Gabriel was good at thinking on his feet. If Castiel was in his position, he’d drive straight past not bothering to stop. Lucifer was smart enough to know he’d been spotted, but also arrogant enough to think he could carry on with his original plan regardless. It could be enough for Gabriel to come up with a workable extraction plan.

“Pity. I was hoping to leave Gabriel alone. Let him continue to play out his little neutrality fantasy and take the problem,” Lucifer motioned towards Sam, Castiel, and Dean, “away from him. We all know he would have only bungled handing you over to one of us again.”

Lucifer swept out of the outhouse to greet the new arrival. His driver, a simulant in MatraWessColt security uniform, handed him his Colt AMT 2000. One arm resting against the SUV, Lucifer looked back over his shoulder, “Don’t bother trying to make a run for it. I guarantee you that my driver will tackle you to the ground before you’ve got twenty yards from the building. Except you Sam, I doubt you’d get away from him at all with your gammy hip. By the way, he’s programmed for instant stun on contact. Once you’re out for the count, I get to have some fun. Castiel and Gabriel get ringside seats while I go to town on the Winchester brothers. Still think you’re the Saviours of Wēalhaz, huh?”

*********************************************************************************************************

Had the message been clear enough? Sam had realised what Castiel was getting at but hadn’t had enough time to do anything clever with the message or send it through any secure channels. Instead, he’d pumped out a Hidden Virtue version of amber alert on the SUV and an SOS back through the loop he’d used to communicate with Charlie.

The Host were anything if unoriginal. He had expected something different from Gabriel given the Archangel’s reputation. Something ostentatious, not the sleek black SUV that was a mirror image of Lucifer’s.

“Dean! Don’t do anything stupid,” he hissed as he watched the thoughts track across his brother’s face.

Not for one second did he buy the innocent, ‘who me’ look he got back. Dean was the king of the self-sacrificing ridiculous idea that somehow always left a trail of unintended consequences. “Yes, you,” he mouthed back at Dean slowly backing away from Lucifer’s vehicle careful not to give off any ‘I’m about to abscond’ vibes to the cyborg.

Dean made a big show of ignoring him.

Sheltering in the outhouse doorway, Sam watched Dean go through the motions of checking his weapon. He couldn’t hear the servos clicking, but he could see Dean clench and unclench his first, curl fingers in one at a time, use his other hand to articulate the wrist joint and flex the whole arm several times to pump fluid through the elbow joint. Sam saw the different coloured LEDs flashing as Dean mentally commanded the gun to change rapidly through its several functions. The well-practiced sequence took no more than sixty seconds. Sam had been so mesmerised by watching Dean’s firefight preparations that it was only when Dean stalked over to stand next to Cas that Sam took a good look at Dean in his entirety, not only his arm. That was when he saw it. Dad’s old Peacemaker tucked into the back of Dean’s waistband. Time slowed down. The scene in front of Sam played out as if he was watching a movie frame by frame.

The black SUV continued driving towards them.

Lucifer strode out to meet it.

Dean shoved Castiel to the side, sending the unsuspecting Host stumbling and then ungracefully dropping to his knees.

The cyborg driver leapt out of Lucifer’s car. Sam expected that it was heading for Dean.

Dean drew his old school pistol and began simultaneously firing at Lucifer and the rapidly approaching cyborg. Lucifer screamed in rage, pawing at a bullet hole in his shoulder. The cyborg slowed to a crawl as fluid began pouring out of its joints.

Then, an arm appeared out of the window of the advancing vehicle throwing something in their direction. An ear-piercing shriek and thick white smoke erupted around Lucifer, Dean, Cas and the cyborg. Only the cyborg didn’t crumble to the floor in a heap. It stumbled forward until it reached Dean’s prone body, then its power cut out rendering it lifeless.

Sam had garnered enough presence of mind to duck back inside the outhouse as he watched the carnage unfold outside. When the blast hit, he had instinctively crouched down behind the door which was miraculously clinging to its hinges. Sam had covered his nose and mouth with his shirt, keeping his hand clamped tight over them. He had his eyes half-closed looking down until the worst of the smoke had drifted by.

What he saw was not what he had been expecting. Three figures in gas masks were getting out of the car but only one was dressed in a grey suit. He couldn’t see his face, but from his silhouette, this was not Gabriel. The two weren’t soldiers. They were both tiny, shorter than the man in the suit. One was wearing of all things black high-heeled boots and a long skirt which only allowed them to take small unsteady steps. The other was wearing combats, but even from this distance, Sam could tell that they weren’t standard military or law enforcement issue.

Instinct told Sam to hide, wait it out and keep trying to contact Gabriel or Charlie. However, he stayed put watching them. If he hid, he’d have no way of knowing who they were or what they were up to. Unless they had back-up, it was unlikely that they’d be able to take Castiel, Dean and Lucifer away. They had clearly come prepared, but to do what?

The one in the skirt, knelt by Lucifer’s body beckoning the one in the suit to come closer. A small package changed hands. Black high heels tucked the package inside Lucifer’s jacket, then leant as close as the gas mask would allow to Lucifer’s ears. Sam wished he could hear what they were saying.

The trio bypassed the cyborg, apparently not even giving it a sideways glance. When they reached Dean and Castiel, again black boots knelt. This time grey suit didn’t hand them anything, he stood idly alongside the third member of the party. Sam wondered why the third was even there. They didn’t seem to have any role. Sam held his breath. If they went for Dean first, he didn’t trust himself not to rush out there to help his brother. What he’d do, Sam didn’t have a clue. But protecting his brother against this unknown…unknown what…enemy, friend, or some random nomads looking for trouble?

What puzzled Sam in the eternity before he could let his breath out when Black Boots leaned into Castiel first was that none of them fit the description for random nomads. Grey Suit and Combats could pass easily enough for corporate or clan goons. Black High Heels though? They looked so ungainly in those heels, dressed in clothes which were so unsuitable for the middle of the desert. In short, Black Boots looked uncomfortable in their own skin – because this wasn’t their own skin! They had a stack in a new body that they hadn’t had time to adjust to.

Before Sam had time to make any further sense of things, Grey Suit jerked his head in the direction of the buildings. With a curt incline of the head Combats made for the main truck stop building. Which option should he take? Stay where he was and watch what happened with Dean and let Combats find their plans laid out in the main building, or sneak through one of the crumbling holes in the wall and use the element of surprise to attack Combats before they could report back to Black Boots and Grey Suit.

“Dean is a big boy. He can take care of himself…Dean is a big boy. He can take care of himself… Dean is a big boy. He can take care of himself.” Sam repeated the two sentences like a mantra as he slipped away from his hiding place and stealthily made a beeline for the rear of the truck stop building and into the kitchenette. Sam stayed low crossing the floor to conceal himself behind the serving counter. On his way to his new hiding spot, he heard the crunch of Combat’s boots on the debris strewn across the floor.

Combats began humming. Sam thought he recognised the beat. He’d heard it not all that long ago.

If Sam could hear her so clearly. She’d taken her mask off. There was no reason why he would recognise her, but with his eidetic memory Sam would know if he’d ever seen her face before. He risked a quick look-see over the top of the counter. She had her back to him, hands on hips examining the notes Dean had scrawled on the wall. Or more accurately, no doubt using an ocular implant to capture the details. Her silhouette was familiar, but there were plenty of women who were a similar shape. Sam briefly considered making a noise to get her to turn around. But then she would be on edge and likely to be trigger-happy. He reminded himself that she would turn of her own accord soon enough to see if there was anything interesting in the kitchenette. He backed himself into the corner where he hoped she’d be less likely to catch sight of the top of his head peeking above the counter. When she did turn away from the wall, Sam recognised her instantly. Meg Masters. The smart carbons were on Grey Suit being Crowley. That left…

“Whoa,” Meg whistled swinging her gas mask in her right hand, “Didn’t see that coming – the two junkies cooking their own! Rowena’s going to lose her shit.”

“Wha…” Sam clamped his hand over his mouth hoping he wasn’t too late.

“Come on out, Sam. I know you’re in here somewhere, I could hear you breathing. Unlike old Morningstar and his metal friend out there, we have come to help you and spirit you away to safety. What’s this the third time I’ve saved your ass? Getting to be a bit of a habit, isn’t it?”

Against his better judgement, Sam stood up. He was eager to meet the woman who had chosen to relinquish her AI status, probably without informing the appropriate authorities, downloaded herself to a stack and come to rescue the three of them at Castiel’s request.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on the road for Team Free Will, Meg, Rowena, and Crowley

For all the world it looked like Castiel had kept his word to the Winchesters and contacted the Coven. Except, as the book of Cerridwenion, in any known translation, had carefully explained the Immortal would never be the one to make the first move. Castiel hadn’t had the courage to seek help from Rowena. For sure, he knew that she was the only possible candidate, but he’d prevaricated. Tales of the Coven’s untrustworthiness were not exaggerated.

It had been over a thousand years since the first of the Coven had appeared on Wēalhaz. They had come seeking sanctuary. Their numbers mercilessly persecuted on their home planet. The books of the prophets of Crëwr paid little attention to them in their writings, merely acknowledging that powerful beings from a far planet lived among the peoples of Wēalhaz with a far longer lifespan and supernatural giftings beyond any that were normal for those born there. The writings were clear that these strangers were not the Corca Oidce. The Coven had little interest in taking over the planet. History had proven that to be true. That is not to say that members of the Coven, more specifically the Inner Sanctum had not used their gifting for personal gain or to attain positions of influence. They had, in many countries across the planet. Throughout the centuries, the priests of the Cruthadair had delivered warnings for the unwary against the Coven suggesting that they would use whatever means were necessary, fair, or foul to get what they desired. Some considered the warnings nonsense. Others heeded it. Others ignored the clear evidence that the Coven would not bring about the downfall of the planet and orchestrated more of the persecution the Coven had come to the planet to avoid.

Rowena MacLeod was no exception. When she had finally decided to upload to the AI programme, she was close on four hundred years old. Over the years she, and her son Fergus, had moved around frequently until the advent of the stack and with it the ability for the rich of Wēalhaz to live forever. Rowena had held the ear of rulers and politicians, military leaders, and captains of industry. She had amassed sizeable fortunes on three different continents. Although, the records never showed quite how she had acquired her wealth. Wherever Rowena went, until she became an AI, she left a trail of destruction behind her. In a rare feat, Rowena had never been the subject of any public persecution, flying under the radar enough to avoid the unwanted attention.

Now here is where the books of the old religion on Wēalhaz are silent. But the equally ancient teachings of the Coven, the books of the Fàidhe, known only to those within its elite, bring further colour to our tale. For they speak of one old enough to pass through the veil bringing succour to the Saviours of the planet that the Coven would adopt in their fight to bring down the oppressive regime of the Corca Oidce:

> _“In the wasteland of blistering heat, the evil one shall be overcome. The ancient one of the Sanctus Sanctorum shall render them unmoving with the might of Dia, creator of everything. Under the ancient one’s wings the Saviours of the planet will flee to the safety of the wild prairies. In the tranquil places of the Ilyosan Plains, the knowledge of the Corca Oidce shall mix with the magic of the Sanctus Sanctorum under the brilliance of the onetime Prince of Darkness and the guardianship of the Brightest Soul.”_

What, of course, the Coven’s ancient tomes never said was how that assistance would be provided, nor what would be expected from the Immortal, the Righteous Man, and the Boy King in return. Apparently, the scribes and seers of the ancient Coven had not anticipated Rowena, or worse, her son Fergus MacLeod.

***************************************************************************************************

Peachy. Fucking Peachy! What moron had come up with the idea that a five-seater SUV would be big enough for six adults? Rowena and Meg might have been small but, no matter how you cut it, the backseat was not big enough for four people. Dean’s standards might have been low. He was man enough to admit that. However, there was no way that he had so little self-respect that he was going to agree to Rowena sitting on his lap to make the journey more comfortable. More comfortable for whom?

Not Cas apparently, as having been rejected by Dean, Rowena had squished herself in so tight against Cas that she’d been half sitting on his lap. It had taken about ten minutes to happen, but finally with too much wiggling coming from the small woman, the Host had hauled her up onto his lap with an exceedingly disgruntled huff and a glare at Dean that would have made a lesser man quake in his boots. Dean found it hilarious.

It was Meg who finally took pity on Castiel. “Sam – use that Gigantor brain of yours and find us the nearest town off this hellish road with a rental place. Use this account number and book us something boring and large enough to comfortably seat the lot of us.”

Meg scooched forward on the seat, giggling as she deliberately jostled Dean’s thigh, and handed a scrap of paper to Sam.

Dean reminded himself not to rise to Meg’s actions. She was teasing him. Not that Dean would have wanted to follow through with anyone at that moment, but most certainly not with Meg – ever! Making any form of comment would only fuel her antics more. Huh, maybe he was pickier than he’d given himself credit. He was two for two with the sleazy assholes…that had saved his ass from Lucifer. He could only keep his fingers crossed that they weren’t going to rub that point in and make him, Sammy, and Cas pay for it. The odds of that happening were slim to none, but a man could dream, couldn’t he?

“We don’t have time!” Crowley barked without looking back at her. “We need to be in Prokridge by early evening tomorrow.”

“Och, Fergus. You know the rest of you’ll have to take some pit stops along the way – make changing out the car one of them.”

“Very well, Mother,” Crowley mumbled, then turned to Sam to change Meg’s instructions. “Don’t book us anything at the nearest rental place. That’d have us making our rest stop too soon – make it one that’s about a couple of hours away. Mother – get off Castiel’s lap. Meg you get to sit on Dean’s for a while. No funny business, and don’t torment him either - that’s my job!”

Dean growled at Crowley. Not for the first time since he’d heard of the douchebag lawyer from the True North, Dean had him high up on his shit list. That list of people were the ones that had Dean wishing he was one of those Prugatoire assassins who could make it look so like suicide that they had the cops believing it without an ounce of suspicion. If he was, he would off Crowley in a heartbeat. Only Michael and Lucifer had made more frequent and higher entries on the list. It was impressive company for the little upstart. Ok so he was considerably older than Dean, but Dean was taller and more muscular and that was what counted for Crowley being ‘little’, right?

He had no frame of reference for Rowena other than what Cas had told him – that she was the best of a small pool of possibles, and that she had birthed Crowley. That she could quell him with one dismissive sentence was a point in her favour, but she lost that again because they’d brought Meg along. Nothing good ever happened when Meg was around.

Meg could swear till she was blue in the face that the only person she’d told about where she’d dropped the three of them off was Crowley and that had been in person. Dean refused to believe her. In Dean’s opinion, it was down to Meg that Lucifer knew where to find them, and he wasn’t budging. Accidently or on purpose he didn’t care, even if it had worked out according to at least part of the plan he and Cas had agreed.

“Stop squirming!”

“Spoilsport! Can’t a girl have a little fun. I’m bored.”

“Boo Hoo, princess! Suck it up like the rest of us. If you keep going, I won’t be responsible for my actions and I’ll set Fergus on you.”

Dean chuckled at Crowley’s snarling face reflected in the rear-view mirror. Not quite as good as one of Sam’s bitchfaces when he called him Sammy, but it was a good effort. Yes, his behaviour was petty but, like Meg, he was bored and worse his immediate future was out of his control again. In the now defunct plan to find a way over the border to the True North it had been him who would dictate the route and transport required to get to the border. When they stopped, he’d get Cas and Sam alone; get things back on track Winchester style.

After one last defiant squirm Meg sat still. Although with her arms crossed over her chest and her pouty face, she clearly wasn’t too happy about it.

“You got that place yet, Sammy? How long at this snail’s pace?”

“Crowley’s trying not to draw any attention to us.” Sam said attempting to keep the peace. “Still searching…don’t bitch…I may be superfast, but there isn’t all that much life out here these days – in case you hadn’t noticed! Even less that’s civilised enough to have a rental place that isn’t only commercial vehicles. I’m guessing you’d rather not sit in the back of a van?”

Dean flopped back against the seat in frustration, earning a disgruntled squeak from Meg.

“Yeah, you’re right Samantha. Just…ugh…just tell me when you do. I need to stretch my legs – if they work after being squashed for so long.”

He had until Prokridge to come up with a way to extricate themselves from the clutches of these three lunatics. If Team Free Will (because that’s what he was calling him, Sam, and Cas) working together sounded ridiculous. This mother and son team with their snarky mercenary tagging along was more so. Rowena and Crowley had bickering down to a finer art than he and Sammy had. If being beholden to them for escaping Lucifer didn’t make his skin crawl, Dean would be impressed with their skills.

Never trust an AI. It was belief John Winchester had tried to drum into the boys from an early age. Dean had quickly accepted it. Sam had rejected it as his interest in all things to do with the net and society’s interconnectivity had grown. Sam had argued many times that AI’s could be a positive thing. The big nerd that he was, Sam had cited AI after AI that had helped in some medical or humanitarian field. He’d never changed their dad’s mind. Nor Dean’s for that matter. Rowena wasn’t going to make Dean let his guard down either. Crowley never did anything for free – that much had been clear from the research Sam had done on him. Dean suspected that he got that trait from somewhere and the smart carbons were on that place being Rowena. Dean knew little about the Coven other than they were not to be trusted. Cas had confirmed that when he had shown his reluctance to contact any one of the Inner Sanctum. Rowena was not helping them out of the goodness of her heart. She was after something. He had to wheedle out of her what that was.

*****************************************************************************************************

“We should be nearing the turning for the rental place in about 45 minutes. I reckon it’s another twenty after that on the old county roads. We can make it a rest stop. There’s a diner and a Gas’n’Sip close by so we can grab food, for those of us that eat, and take a comfort break too.”

Sam’s words jolted Castiel back into the car. He’d been lost in Host radio. It was surprisingly quiet about Lucifer leaving the Midwest. It was possible that Lucifer had used their traditional way of travelling rather than using human methods of transportation. If MWC had a testing outpost in the desert, Lucifer could easily have teleported there, then commandeered the cyborg and vehicle in no time at all. Teleporting the cyborg and car would have taken its toll even on an Archangel, but it was doable. Land out of range of most commercially available sensors, then drive up as if he’d driven from the nearest airport, after flying in from Mór Mears. It would explain why he hadn’t been missed, yet.

To his chagrin, Charlie’s efforts to keep his voice alive were one of the main topics of conversation. Before, he had purposely tuned them out. He hadn’t asked for any favours from the Queen of Moons. Didn’t need her help! Well, not this early on in proceedings anyway. Castiel could understand why she’d done it. She thought that she would be helping by ensuring that the peoples of Wēalhaz remembered his messages of free will and the need not to acquiesce to the Host’s totalitarian control. All it had done was set Lucifer after them personally and most likely doomed his favourite brother, Gabriel, too.

“I guess it’s me and you looking after the new car while the rest of them refuel, eh cutie? However, will we entertain ourselves?”

Castiel picked Rowena’s hand up off his thigh, dropping it back on her own lap. “I don’t think that will be necessary. All cars are alarmed, as you are well aware, and I’m sure Dean will be able to further secure it in our short absence. We could always pick up the rental after our visit to the diner.”

“That would be the most sensible way to do things,” Sam interjected.

Rowena muttered under her breath in the ancient language of the Albanach of Erpach. Her eyes bored a hole in the back of Sam’s head.

“Much as I hate to say it, Jolly Green is right. We’d be better off taking our stop, ditch this vehicle somewhere away from the diner, and then collect the new one on foot afterwards…Don’t scowl at me. You chose that ridiculous get-up.” Crowley gestured over his shoulder at his mother, his eyes creasing at the corner in glee at her obvious displeasure at the plan.

“I go to all this trouble to look good. Nowhere near my chronological age…”

“389,” Crowley snickered from the front.

“…and I get turned down by the guy that spouts free love and the beauty of the naked human form!”

Castiel lowered his voice so only Rowena could hear, “You are indeed in an aesthetically pleasing body. However, if you are not planning on adequately fuelling it, then it will not be up to the rigours of such an activity. You would be well advised to care for this vessel as if it was your own body. I have found that while I do not require sustenance or sleep this vessel wears down fast if I do not provide it with the basic human needs of food, liquid, and sleep. I am sure that any future…er…lovers…wouldn’t appreciate you being incapacitated because of thirst, hunger or lack of rest. I…well…I’ve never been all that interested in the female form – not sexually.”

He should not have said that! But he couldn’t take it back now. Castiel could only imagine the field day Rowena would have with that information.

Rowena placed her mouth over his ear, “Bollocks, I had hoped that I’d interpreted our old writings incorrectly. They had suggested that the Immortal would have eyes for only one. I suspect that you’ll have a harder time convincing your Bright Soul of that though!”

Castiel couldn’t stop the heat that flooded his face. Scratching at the back of his neck, he turned to stare out of the window at the unchanging scenery of this part of the West. He was going to have a tough time looking Dean in the face during their stop. After his little speech he couldn’t avoid going into the diner.

Now would be an opportune time to decode the message that kept flashing up through the radio chatter. He assumed it was from Balthazar and might explain why Rowena had turned up in a stack with Crowley and Meg when Castiel had not made any attempt to contact her before Lucifer crashed their hideout.

Only it wasn’t from Balthazar, it was from Inias! That was ominous. Another one of his long-term friends who Castiel had once trusted with his life until their father had gone missing and the Host had violated every way Castiel believed Crëwr wanted the Host to help Wēalhaz. It wasn’t even in any form of cypher. Inias had made a paltry attempt to hide the information by writing in ancient Grèigeach. Equally disturbingly, Inias knew Castiel was after information about the Coven, the Inner Sanctum, and specifically Rowena MacLeod. A quick skim of the contents put paid to any thoughts of avoiding Dean. Castiel needed to talk with Sam and Dean alone, long before they reached Prokridge.

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He had access to the net as had Cas. Why hadn’t he thought about communicating with him through it before? Mainly because he hadn’t wanted to exclude Dean from the conversations, or there’d been no need because it was only him and Cas in the room. Now was different. He didn’t want to wait until they stopped to change cars. He knew the look on his brother’s face. Dean was planning something. Cas didn’t know Dean well enough to know what that meant in a situation like they were currently in. Dean wasn’t calling the shots and the decisions were being forced on him. Dean didn’t respond well to being told what to do unless, like daddy’s perfect little soldier, there was a clear chain of command. Rowena might have swooped in to save the day with her son and the hired help in tow, but she wasn’t the ‘leader’ of their little crew. Sam was convinced that his brother was going to find a way to rest some control back, but at what cost?

Sam felt out for the rogue Host. All he got in return when he tried to connect with the contact details against Castiel’s real identity or his aliases was static. Sam tried again and got the same response. He looked over his shoulder again at the four adults squeezed into the back seat. Dean was plotting something reckless. Rowena and Meg both looked to be sulking. Cas was gazing unseeing out the window deep in thought. He looked so immersed in whatever he was thinking about that Sam wondered if the static was Cas’s method of hinting that he didn’t want to be disturbed. He ought to have respected Cas’s right to be left to his own thoughts, but Sam had this pricking at the back of his brain that things weren’t right, and it was more than saving Dean from himself.

Sam tried something he had never done before. He had heard that those rare individuals born wired as though they were part human part machine could simultaneously hold down two or three separate conversations online and run multiple invasive net programmes at the same time. He’d never been able to do more than run background checks while holding one online conversation at a time, even on the Demonex. It was worth a shot. See if his upgrades meant he now had something more akin to the natural-born runner’s abilities. Sam reached out to Charlie. If anyone could hack through Cas’s do not disturb it would be her. At the same time, he set an algorithm running looking at memories of Dean’s idiotic plans to try and predict what his brother would most likely do in this situation. Pushing himself further than was sensible, Sam also began pulling downloads of everything he could find about the Coven’s occult practices and sorting the data. As the cherry on top, he tried to creep past Castiel’s defences himself, hoping that even if he couldn’t get a conversation going now, he could warn Cas that Dean was up to something that could jeopardise the outcome of their end game.

“Sam…Sam…what the hell are you doing?” Charlie’s avatar looked concerned.

“Need to get Castiel’s attention, but he’s blocking me.”

Charlie gave an exasperated sigh, “Not that doofus! What are you doing to yourself? Your signature is over so much activity that…I’m…well…I’m concerned…you’re not…”

“Hold on a second,” Sam knew that his avatar had flickered with the surge of rage at the idea that Charlie was keeping tabs on everything he was doing. “How do you know that?”

“I’m watching out for you. Like I told you when we first talked, I’ve been keeping tabs on you since you had that unfortunate accident. It’s easier now we’ve made contact. The neural signatures are easier to detect because I know them first-hand. Now, you got upgrades great, but you have to learn how to use them…Uh, Sam…stay with me…”

His head hurt. The pain was worse than when he’d been coming down off the drugs cold turkey. The data in his head was blurring, mixing up so that he couldn’t tell what was algorithm, what was data download or what was his hacking programme. None of it made any sense.

“Let me take over getting through to Cas and the data download, Sam. Trust me. I think I know what you’re searching for in the archives.”

“Nuh…I…need…I have to…”

“Sam! Sam! Are you ok?”

Why was Cas yelling at him? He didn’t want to be disturbed; he’d made that clear with all the static. But why did he sound so muffled? He was there in Sam’s head same as Charlie. He’d heard her fine. Why couldn’t he hear Cas like that?

“Shit! Sam! Sam!”

That, that wasn’t Cas or Charlie? Who the fuck was it? They sounded closer than Cas, but not…Sam felt his head lolling against the headrest as the car swerved violently off the highway onto the hard shoulder.

He couldn’t let Charlie take over. He needed to know what the limits of his capabilities were. How could he allow her to search through the Coven data when he didn’t even really know himself? He had this hunch that the Coven had another clue to defeating the Host. He must find it without Rowena or Crowley’s help. They’d never hand over the information for free and he doubted that Wēalhaz could afford their price. Out of the frying pan and into the fire came to mind.

The door next to him was yanked open. Soft hands were touching his face, a feminine voice was telling him to hold on, to stay with her. Tissue. That was tissue replacing the hands on his face. Sam reached up, pulling the tissue away from his face. He felt where it had been – the skin was wet. When recognised the smell on his fingers before his eyes managed to focus on the real world. Blood.

Next thing he knew, he was being pulled from the car and laid out on the side of the road. His vision was swimming. The real world and the net so confused. There was a hand clutching his shoulder, by the strength of the grip it was Dean. Dean had been with him in the car, hadn’t he? He hadn’t run off on a lone crusade yet, had he?

As if answering the unspoken prayer, Dean’s voice filtered through Sam’s consciousness, “Sammy. You’re going to be ok, Sammy. I promise. Come back to us, please? I’ve got you. You’re safe. Come on, Sam, fight damn you!”

Another pair of hands rested on Sam’s other shoulder. A face, fuzzy around the edges, peered at him. “It’s alright. I’m so sorry, Sam. I should have warned you to build up your skills gradually. We’ll talk when you’re better. You get some sleep now and the nanites will have sorted everything out by the time you wake up.”

Two cool fingers pressed to his forehead and Sam drifted off. When he awoke, Sam did feel refreshed. It was as if he had never pushed his net abilities to breaking point. He also knew a few things about how the Host had kept control over the people of Wēalhaz and what skills those of the Coven’s Inner Sanctum had with herbs, potions, and for want of a better word, spells. How he’d come by that knowledge, Sam had no idea.

*********************************************************************************************************

“How the fuck could you put him in danger like that? You don’t just hand anyone an ArasaKa assault rifle, pat them on the back and leave them to get on with it. Jeeze! You give ‘em some advice on what to do and what not to do. Hopefully, you take ‘em to a range and teach them to shoot safely and hit the target every time.”

Dean was fuming. He stomped away from Cas before he punched him in the face. If he started, he wasn’t sure he’d stop until he’d beaten the guy’s borrowed face to a pulp. This is exactly what he’d been trying to avoid with the new plan he’d been formulating on their way here. Stopping Sam from being hurt. Fuck it! Senselessly he aimed his arm in the sky and launched a couple of fireballs. Yeah, he was wasting his newly acquired ammo, but he had to do something. He couldn’t sit and watch Sam pretend like nothing had happened simply because Cas wanted to show off his Host powers and heal him. Nanites sorted everything out for Sam, his ass!

“Meg! A word, in private, please?”

“What am I Winchester, your personal assistant?”

Why did she have to be so difficult? He was already on the edge. Meg’s usual surly behaviour was going to shred his last nerve. But Dean Winchester wasn’t about to beg her to be nice to him because he was having a shitty day. She’d not agree anyway. The most probable response from Meg would be that she’d be more obnoxious simply because she knew it would hit harder.

Rowena was standing behind Meg, her lips moving at a fast pace. From where he was Dean couldn’t hear what she was saying. When Meg groused at him, Rowena paused, poked Meg in the shoulder and pointed her in Dean’s direction. It looked like Meg was about to have a tantrum about being bossed around by everybody in their motley crew, but she thought better of it and walked over to him frowning.

“Alright, I’m here what do you want? Apart from Clarence’s head on a platter because I’m not dumb enough to screw up this thing you three got going on – shit it’s even got both MacLeod’s believing it. Trust me, that NEVER happens.”

“Yeah,” Dean wasn’t about to prevaricate. Whether he accepted the truth of it or not, Sam needed him right now. This conversation needed to be over quick so he could get back to watching over his brother. “About that…what do you know about the inner workings of the Coven? You’re not a merc for hire to any old jerk with enough carbons, are you?”

“Now, now Dean-o, what are you implying?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Meg. If you’re not one of them, then you’ve had a lot of dealings with the Coven before. After Maithspás I would have picked you for being on a retainer for Crowley, but then you show up to bust us out of Gabriel’s. Threw me for a while – even with the references to your ‘Boss’, and Cas asking you what you’d read of Coven literature. But what got me thinking was what we found about you – see I’m guessing you aren’t really in your twenties. Maybe not as old as Crowley but certainly well over a hundred, yet you don’t look a day over twenty-five. It’s too good a job for some backstreet biosurgeon or ripperdoc. Don’t have an incision on your neck either – so you’re not a stack in a meatsuit. Leaves only two viable explanations, both lead us back to the Coven.”

“Way to go Columbo! You’re gonna have to be more explicit in what you mean by ‘inner workings’.”

Count to ten. Count to ten. “That knockout juice wasn’t anything I’ve ever experienced before – on the firing off or the receiving end. Sam told me what Rowena did – mentioned something about her placing a pouch in Lucifer’s pocket while muttering something over his prone body. Then me and Cas woke up without any side effects from being out for the count. It ain’t normal. There’s always been rumours. Heck, Uncle Bobby and Ash are firm believers that the Coven use some kind of magic or hoodoo. Although to be fair, Ash is a conspiracy theorist and Bobby – yeah probably the least said about that grumpy old codger the better.”

Uncharacteristically, she shifted her weigh from foot to foot. She squinted at him. Dean assumed sizing up either his possible reactions or his trustworthiness. Meg had seemed so sure of herself, to see this hesitance heaped more concern on Dean’s growing belief that something was…hinky. He watched in silence as Meg lowered her head and from under her eyelashes quickly located Rowena and Crowley, biting at her bottom lip.

“Unless they’ve got enhanced hearing, we’re too far…Ugh…Crowley?”

Meg’s nodded was barely perceptible. If Dean hadn’t been so close, he expected he would have missed it.

“How do we do this, then? ‘Cause I gotta know what’s going on, Meg! I got Cas telling me I’m some Righteous Man destined from birth by a god I don’t believe in, and Cas can’t get to answer his prayers, to be a saviour of the planet. I can’t save shit, man! Even allowed Sammy to get hurt by that idiot Host’s behaviour. Then I got some chick that’s older than anyone ought to be, putting on a meatsuit to come rescue me and waffling about some other prophecies about me that I’m some Bright Soul that’s gonna help the Coven. It don’t make a lick of sense to me. Then in amongst all our modern technology crap, Methusala over there starts bringing out shit that’s more backward and archaic than anything I ever saw.”

Dean stopped before he went too far. No point showing his closeted vulnerable side to the mercenary. It was nobody’s business but his own how soft and squishy he was inside.

“Offer to go drop off the old car and meet them outside the rental place? Sam can exist without you hovering over him for half an hour. He’s fine now. Emergency evac training, remember?”

His face must have shown his confusion at how certain Meg was that Sam was ok after almost melting his brain with too many open tabs. Who knows what the aftereffects of Cas messing with Sam’s melon would be?

Meg closed the gap between them, grabbed hold of his elbow, guiding him towards the SUV, “I’ll let you drive. Give you something to focus on,” Meg said then called out over her shoulder, “We’ll met you outside the rental lot after we’ve ditched this, ok?” She didn’t wait for any of the others to confirm, hopping straight into the passenger seat and reaching for the central control panel.

Dean slapped her hand away from the control panel. “No distractions – talk.”

Meg huffed, “a little background music wouldn’t harm.”

“Fair enough.” Dean turned the panel on fiddling with the thing until he found the music function. “I’m driving. My rules. Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

“Can’t shut it if you want me to talk.”

Dean kept playing with the settings until he found the paltry rock tracks uploaded to the onboard system.

“So?”

Meg slouched in her seat, resting one foot on the dash.

“I guess you already figured that the Inner Sanctum of the Coven are purebreds from an ancient race that came to Wēalhaz centuries ago. On their old planet, they were considered to be the favoured sons and daughters of the gods, blessed with the ability to work in harmony with the spirit and energy of the earth to bring about blessings and were necessary healing to those around them. Belief in the old gods died and with it the high regard for those with special giftings. The ungrateful people turned against them, calling them witches and accusing them of being in league dark forces. A few the most highly gifted families, known as the Sanctus Sanctorum, decided to flee the planet. No prizes for guessing where they ended up. At first, they kept themselves to themselves, but soon our ancestors saw the benefits to what the abilities the Coven brought. The Sanctus Sanctorum jumped at the chance to be of service to their new home. However, over time their gifts became abused and the same patterns of persecution happened. Instead of running away again, some of them stayed, changing the name of their highest ranking to the Inner Sanctum and now embittered at the continuing maltreatment at the hands of those jealous of their giftings, Coven members started to live up to the tales told about them.

Rowena is from one of those high-ranking families. She has some of the strongest magical abilities of anyone on the planet. She can bless and curse, she can make healing potions and tinctures, or she can poison. It’s all the same to her, so long as the outcome benefits her. Crowley on the other hand, I don’t think his father was from the Coven. At times he thinks like one of us. He certainly doesn’t often have time for his mother’s hocus pocus. If it benefits him, he’ll play along with the Coven’s wishes. If it doesn’t, it’s Team Crowley all the way.”

Meg shot him an unreadable look.

“Go on.”

“You’re right that there are prophecies in the world of the Coven as much as there are in the religion of the Cruthadair. They tell of the three, aided by one of the ancient ones from the Sanctus Sanctorum, who will free the people from the Corca Oidce – or the evil forces not of this world come to wreck the plant. What Sam would tell you is that in the books of the Prophets that you deride, the enemy that the Saviours of Wēalhaz are to defeat is also called the…”

“Corca Oidce.” Dean grinned at Meg’s stunned face. “What don’t think I’m capable of being anything other than the meathead with a gun?”

Meg’s face turned deathly serious. “No, Dean you’re so much more than that. If Rowena believes you’re the Bright Soul and Cas is certain you’re the Righteous Man – you are. I’ve read the prophecies in both traditions. Call it a little insurance policy on my part when Crowley told me he was going to work with his mother on Coven business in the West and put me on to tracking a rogue Host by the name of Castiel.”

He was suddenly freezing cold and the air conditioning hadn’t even had a chance to kick in yet.

“Dean, you’re the moral compass here. The one that wants to do what’s right, not what’s expedient. You’re the one hellbent on protecting everyone except yourself, which is where I come in,” Meg gave him a cheeky grin. “Without you, those two numbskulls won’t survive this in one piece. Nor…nor will we, and I’d kinda like my life shitty as it may seem to some people.”

To add to the chills, the bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach at Meg’s words. He knew what she was about to tell him, but he had to hear it come from her not his own paranoia.

“What Rowena did back at the truck stop? You know it only kept Lucifer knocked out? He’s coming back for all of us – oh he’ll have worked out who helped you alright. It’s not difficult to add the pieces of the puzzle together when you’re an Archangel. Except this time, I guarantee you he’ll bring Michael and Raphael as back-up. We cannot. I repeat we cannot go to Prokridge. That plan you spent the drive formulating as a decoy…don’t bother denying it…Dean, we’re too alike…”

“We are nothing alike…”

“Trust me, we are. I know I’d have been planning a way to get Sam and Cas away from us to a safe place and lead anyone who was trailing you away from them by giving yourself up as the sacrificial pawn.”

She’d got him there. That was exactly what he’d been planning to do.

“Fuck! That’s scary good. Better come up with a whole new scheme then, and fast.”

Dean hit his head against the steering wheel. How he missed his crappy apartment in the roughest part of town with no money for booze or food and syphoning off his neighbours’ net connections for porn. He wished he’d never set eyes on that job offer from Michael.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- The escape plan goes wrong  
> \- Rowena saves the day, but Team Free Will aren't thrilled about it

In the most nonsensical route anyone could possibly have imagined they had ended up in Iylosa. With Charlie’s help they had created signals showing a car identical to the 7-seater they were now in heading back to An Spiorat and another like the one they’d left the truck stop in heading to Prokridge.

Crowley had insisted on driving. Rowena had backed up his demand stating that he was an infuriating backseat driver. To Crowley’s dismay, payback came in the seating arrangements for the 4 hour drive. To raised eyebrows, Meg and Dean had claimed the back row. Cas had insisted that he and Sam sit together to begin Sam’s instruction on the safe use of his uber speed and multi-tasking capabilities. To Crowley’s dismay, and Sam’s amusement, that left him sitting upfront with his mother. No-one had it in them to feel any sympathy for him.

Sam vaguely remembered hearing of OrcainEva Corporation. He couldn’t recall what they did, but it brought them enough clout to have a private airfield beyond the outer zones of the city. Castiel stiffened beside him his lips drawn into a thin weak smile when Rowena gleefully announced that they’d reached the next transit stop in their journey north. Despite not being as enthused as the Coven elder at their location, Castiel didn’t say anything, so Sam didn’t poke the bear. What he did was whisper “Blaze” in Dean’s ear as the group exited the car following Rowena’s instruction to head straight for the terminal building. For a company successful enough to have its own airfield, the building itself wasn’t much more than an oversized tin hut. Once inside, Sam did a double take. The interior more closely resembled the VIP lounges in the commercial shuttle terminals that he’d experienced when travelling with Lucifer’s entourage. 

Only Crowley and Rowena looked like they belonged in the lounge with the other executives. Meg, bringing up the rear dressed down in combats as she was, stood out from the other ‘bodyguards’ lurking on the fringes of each little huddle of OrcainEva employees.

“Don’t stare. Keep your heads down and make sure to stay at least three steps behind mother and me. Angel, you better get in the middle of the other two. There are plenty here who’ll recognise what you are, if they don’t already know who, and would be only too happy to do something about it.” Crowley kept his voice low, barely moving his lips as he issued the warning.

Right at the far end of the lounge were a pair of ornate doors. Wooden, or made to look like wood, decorated with carved symbols Sam didn’t recognise. Two towering mechanoids guarded the doors, their limbs covered in the same symbols overlaid with gold to contrast with the drab grey of their kevlar covering. Rowena stopped directly in front of the doors. Crowley went first to the mechanoid on the right, staring at a screen on its chest and pressing his left hand to its upturned palm. He moved across to the second droid and completed the same ritual. The he joined Rowena again as they recited an incantation in the ancient language of the Coven. The doors swung open. Rowena and Crowley strolled through beckoning the others to follow. They did, except Castiel who remained rooted to the spot. From the look on his face, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if the Host had turned tail and sprinted from the building. Dean had noticed as well. The brother’s exchanged a silent warning not to let their guard down. Even Meg didn’t look so self-assured as she shoved Castiel to get him moving forward.

“Alrighty then boys, take a seat. Don’t move a muscle, don’t look at anyone funny, and most definitely do not speak. You especially, Dean-o. Meg, please accompany mother to the desk. You may then retire to hang out with the other bodyguards. Might be as well to ask mother to…uh…acquire you a new set of clothes. Something more suited to your new station as her personal guard.” Crowley motioned to a row of seats, well more like armchairs, against the wall. “Together boys, if you please,” Crowley barked as Dean went to sit a couple of seats away from Castiel.

Sam wanted to giggle as he could see a muscle in Dean’s neck twitching and the smartass remark forming on his lips only to be silenced with a lift of a finger from Crowley. He swallowed the laughter down though, not wanting to find himself on the receiving end of Crowley’s schoolteacher act.

It bothered Sam how strangely, even for him, Castiel was acting in the terminal. During their drive Castiel had taught Sam how to better control his abilities, and how he could reach the Host through the net and it would reach him, even if his signal was set to do not disturb.

“I pray to the Angel of Deardá, Castiel. I would seek his assistance,” Sam thought the words, sending them swirling through the ether until they formed what Castiel had called a summoning sigil.

It worked! Castiel had heard him. Sam sensed an urgent answer coming from Castiel. Unfortunately, Sam was too wrapped up in his achievement to pay attention to the response immediately and all hell broke loose before he did. Sirens wailing, Crowley ready to pounce, Castiel’s grip tightening around his wrist urging him to stay still. Then armed guards rushing in their direction, Meg hot on their heels. Rowena spewing a stream of something Sam couldn’t hear in all the commotion, tottering after Meg in her unpractical high heels.

Oh fuck, were they super boned, double-crossed, up the creek without paddle or any hope of rescue! In a flash of insight, Sam remembered what it was that OrcainEva did. They were a global medical evacuation company, infamous as not only one of the few highly successful corporations not owned by the Host but also the one that held worldwide contracts for the transportation of the most dangerous patients suffering from cyberpsychosis. The duplicitous witches were intending to transport them across the border as escaped cyberpsychosis patients being repatriated to the True North. Once they were under stasis and the physical restraints in the transportation pod there was no guarantee that the MacLeod’s would hold up their end of the deal. He, Dean, and Cas had to find a way out of there now.

*****************************************************************************************************

“No, Sam! Not here.” Castiel pushed back through the ether. It was far too dangerous to pray to him here. Another thing he’d failed to teach Sam. To say that he sucked at instructing others was a colossal understatement. If there had been time, he would have offered up a silent prayer to his Father that he had been one of Crëwr’s last creations and had never been entrusted with teaching any younger siblings.

Castiel got no further than that when a screeching sound erupted around them.

Crowley cursed and snapped into a combat stance in front of them.

Castiel reached out placing a restraining hand each on Sam and Dean. Usually he refrained from using his full strength. However, now wasn’t the time for such restraint if he was to keep the Boy King and the Righteous Man alive. For now, it was necessary for Crowley to handle things. Castiel appreciated the small mercy that Dean had sat on his left. If they had been seated the other way around, Castiel may well have had to crush Dean’s arm to keep it rooted to the chair. As it was, the pressure on Dean’s arm, Crowley’s readiness to fight off the guards, and Meg’s frantic pursuit were enough to prevent Dean swinging his free cybernetic arm at him. He could only pray that Dean had the good sense not to try and use the weapon unless the witches were unsuccessful in calming the situation.

Castiel tamped down his own desire to fight. He had no blade, but he could smite the advancing troops. The problem with that being that he’d refused to use his grace for so long that he didn’t trust himself to control it adequately. If he couldn’t, he would probably destroy the whole airfield, leaving himself the sole survivor amid the destruction. Once again, his artlessness had caused more problems than it had solved. He should have…what was it the humans said? He should have gone with his gut and found another way out of the desert. As an angel, not many things could make Castiel fear for his life. However, the soldiers who were now closing in on Crowley held the blades that, if they were able to get close enough to use them, could indeed kill an angel. All he could do was sit and wait. It was infuriating to the remnants of the warrior he had once been.

As unexpectedly as the siren had sounded and the attack had begun, it stopped. The soldiers stilled instantly, standing statue-like mere inches away from Crowley. Thank the Cruthadair for that! As the latest worrying announcement blared through the speakers. Castiel quirked an eyebrow at Rowena, his head tilted to the side. Rowena smiled back at him serenely while she patted her hair back into place and smoothed down her clothes. The point that Inias had been trying to get across to him in the encoded message finally sunk in. Although creatively disguised through multiple holding companies and false shareholder names, the majority owner of OrcainEva was one Rowena MacLeod. The guards were replicants incapable of independent thought. The alarm had triggered a response routine that homed in on signs of a Host life in the building. The announcement that his brothers had guessed their preferred means of transport wasn’t what had stopped the guards. It was Rowena who had infiltrated the programme and terminated it.

Castiel ignored the very human emotions that threatened to engulf him. He couldn’t afford to think about the implications behind the way that the announcement was worded. As much as it galled him, he was very much beholden to the Coven for the time being. Getting out of here without any unnecessary loss of life made cooperation with Rowena essential.

****************************************************************************************************

“Get the fuck of off me!”

No point in doing as Crowley had said anymore. An alarm had been triggered. Armed guards were bearing down on them in what Dean recognised as the shoot first mindset. He was damned if Dean Winchester was going to go do without a fight. If he was about to die, then he’d go out on his own terms in a blaze of glory. But Cas wasn’t listening. Or if he was…ugh, Dean didn’t have time for this shit. He might only be able to use one hand in this fight. He might have to make his final stand sitting down. But Cas had his vice-like grip on the wrong arm, or the right one depending on your point of view. Fireballs with a side of armour piercing, set on automatic, to follow should do the trick, because…because for an inexplicable reason, the soldiers weren’t carrying guns, only knives.

“By order of the Archangels of the Combined Territories – on and offworld flights from all airfields and shuttle termini are hereby suspended until further notice. OrcainEva senior management apologise for the disruption to your plans. No actions will be taken for any missed deadlines. Please remain as you are until we received further guidance. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The announcement appeared to stop the soldiers dead in their tracks. Sadly, it didn’t improve their situation much. There was only one reason that every flight was being grounded – Lucifer suspected that the real escape route wasn’t going to be over a land border. Dean also had a bad feeling that not all the Archangels would agree to that plan. Cas had been so sure that, ignoring the outward appearance to the contrary, Gabriel was on their side. Dean recoiled at the unpalatable truth behind that thought – Gabriel was dead.

“Seriously, you can let go of me now, dude! They’re…holy shit…they’re immobilised, aren’t they?”

Dean scratched his head with his free hand and winced knowing he should have waited until Cas released the other one. Adrenaline was pumping through his system which, until he calmed down, made the chrome arm useless for anything other than its intended use as a weapon. He had the scars to prove it from other times he’d thoughtlessly scratched while revved up.

“Indeed, they are.” Cas intoned as he slowly withdrew his hand from Dean’s wrist.

If he hadn’t known better, Dean would question whether the angel hadn’t wanted to let go of him. The thought was preposterous.

Dean followed Castiel’s gaze. Rowena was looking remarkably smug for someone who a minute before had come across as being as panicked as everyone else in the VIP lounge.

“They were no risk to you, Dean. I was their only target.”

The knives? Another couple of jigsaw pieces fell into place. These weren’t ordinary knives, these were created specifically to kill an angel, one of the Host. There would be an extremely limited number of organisations that would know that – the Coven being one. OrcainEva was controlled by the Coven. As a member of the Inner Sanctum, it was feasible that Rowena was or had been involved in the company. It was Rowena who had called off the hounds. How many times were they going to owe the Coven for aiding their escape? Almost made him want to copy his nerd of a brother’s behaviour and research what these damned prophecies Cas kept bleating about said with regards help from untrustworthy sources, specifically members of the Coven’s Inner Sanctum. Almost – but not enough to do anything about it.

He leaned into Cas, not wanting anyone else to hear, “The announcement…the way that it was worded. If it was relayed word for word, then that means…”

“I know what it means. It means we have no-one else to rely on except Rowena and Crowley. I have lost brothers before. I expect that I will lose others in this struggle. There will be a time when I can mourn their passing, but it is not now.”

Dean understood. He quickly moved the conversation to the next pressing issue. “If we’re stuck relying on the most unreliable allies ever and we have to throw yet another plan in the trash, what’s next?”

“Stand down, Fergus. The idiot angel is safe for now.”

Crowley growled, “Which knucklehead didn’t get the memo? Are you really so dense that I had to spell out that no talking meant even using your net communications or those sneaky little tricks the Host have for communicating with their special collaborators?”

“What are you on about?” Dean asked genuinely confused as to what Crowley meant.

Rowena laid a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Now’s not the time. We have to find ourselves another way over the border – even our highest security transports of patients have been grounded until further notice.”

*********************************************************************************************************

Sam’s face reddened. His smart plan had started the attack on Cas. He made a note, one he should have acknowledged ages ago. Never underestimate the power of the Coven.

“What about land transportation? You guys have ambulances, don’t you? I’ve seen them.”

He was surprised that Crowley answered.

“Never across international borders though. The company doesn’t even like to cross territories by land. We do it if we have to, but there’s too much risk with certain categories of ‘patient’ for that to be the normal modus.”

“Besides, Sammy,” Dean said in a patronising tone, “If they’ve grounded flights, they’ll be tightening up the land borders too. Think because it’s a medical vehicle the Host won’t program their border droids to treat it as suspicious.”

“Duh,” Sam rolled his eyes. This wasn’t his first rodeo, on either side of the law for pity’s sake. “Rowena, are they seriously suggesting that they don’t want high security cyberpsychs moved from holding cells to the maximum-security facilities that can hold them if they have an episode?”

Meg nodded at him encouragingly. Castiel turned in his seat to face Sam, realisation flashing across his face at what Sam was about to suggest.

“I would have to get someone who works for OrcainEva to check the guidelines issued by the Archangels.”

“Conference now, Sammy!” Dean stood up, pointing at him and Castiel.

Meg and Crowley gracefully backed away to form their own huddle.

Rowena span on her heels and marched back up to the desk at the back of the lounge.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you are?”

“It’s insane, I know. We’ve tried running by ourselves. Both Lucifer and the Coven found us. We’ve tried changing vehicles and setting up decoy routes, but the evidence suggests that Michael, Lucifer, or Raphael has anticipated our next move.”

Sam wished he hadn’t seen the flinch in both Dean and Castiel when he left out Gabriel’s name. They all knew the truth hidden in the announcement about the Archangel of the West. Sam logged the need to ask Castiel who Gabriel’s successor would be and whether they were as likely to be on Castiel’s side.

“I agree with Dean on this one, Sam. It is too risky. Putting ourselves at the mercy of the Coven while conscious and able to reason with them or fight them off is one thing. Allowing them to put us into a stasis or braindance pod and transport us around is suicidal. While neither would do much to harm my angelic essence, it would make easy pickings to use one of those angel blades to slice through my stack and kill me. Do you truly want to take the risk that they wouldn’t hook you up indefinitely with no ability to release yourself?”

“I get it, not thrilled with the idea either. Look at it this way, the three Archangels want us dead – no matter what games they might want to play beforehand, but when Coven replicants were about to slice Castiel to pieces, Rowena stopped them. Why do that only to stitch us up later?”

Sam could see he wasn’t getting through to either of the others. “Either of you got any better ideas now that Gabriel isn’t going to come charging to our rescue…uh, sorry Cas…but we all know it’s the truth?”

“It’s ok. He’s gone. I expect any other brother who has been helping me will soon also be exposed and…” Castiel left the rest of the sentence hanging. No-one needed him to finish it either. “I expect one of Michael’s or Lucifer’s supporters will be installed in the West.”

“That makes the Coven our only allies on Wēalhaz. Charlie could maybe do something, but how long would that take, and we’d have to ditch the three amigos. Or, I guess, we could sit here and wait for the inevitable if you’d prefer?”

“Good news, boys. Your Aunty Rowena has fixed things for you.”

Three pairs of eyes swivelled to Rowena.

“No. No dice! You’re not hooking me up to one of those things…well not unless you guarantee it’s only going to play hours of hot offworld porn for me.”

Rowena’s withering glance shut Dean up.

“Afternoon delights are NOT on the cards. You three are now the latest recruits to our transportation security staff. You won’t be lounging around for the trip up to the Grohurst River Maximum Security Asylum fifteen miles from Savisak, you’ll be working all the way. With a teensy bit of help from Coven magic…”

Sam caught on. “To change our appearance so we can hide in plain sight, right? What about Cas though? It’s not only his appearance that’ll give him away.”

“Sam is correct,” Castiel said, “They will have the border guards and transport cyborgs ready to look for any signs that anyone on a vehicle could be part of the Host.”

Rowena smiled one of her condescending smiles. Sam had seen her use them before on Crowley to great effect. Castiel was no different. Rowena clearly already had that covered with more magic.

“Alright. Makes a damn sight more sense than Sam’s plan to turn us into cyberpsychos. If trouble comes, we can fight our way out of it – like we always do. Right, Sammy?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travels on the way to the border, and some disturbing news from the Archangel camp.

“Stop being such a wuss!”

Dean yanked at the collar of his OrcainEva jumpsuit. It itched. It bunched in all the wrong places with the tactical belt attached. He’d also rather not think about the last time he’d worn a jumpsuit like this. It had been red, and he’d been on the other side of the deal, locked up and hooked up to intravenous Ultimate Equalizer and re-education immersion loops. He might have seen the sense in traveling this way rather than as one of the criminally insane, didn’t mean he trusted Meg or the two other ‘real’ guards not to knock them out and hook them up.

“You’re not the one wearing this ridiculous get-up! Why does the angel get to wear a suit, but me and Sammy don’t?”

Meg jumped down from the driver’s seat on the transport vehicle. Reaching up on tiptoes, she slapped Dean around the back of his head. “Because, dummy, how many doctors have you seen with weaponised chrome arms?”

It was childish, but Dean couldn’t help his retort, “Sammy’s all human – even the replacement leg and he’s so ridiculously smart he could totally pull off nerd doctor.”

Meg looked at her hand. Dean could tell she was wondering whether to slap him again. He growled out, “Don’t even think about it.”

“Too late, Dean,” she chirped. “I’ll take pity on you though. Got to preserve those remaining brain cells. Castiel is the doctor in case we get a real situation with the cargo. Can Sammy take down a nutjob with two fingers to the forehead?”

Dean sagged in defeat. Of course, stupid Host superpowers would get Cas the best seat in the house after Meg’s. He stomped off to commiserate with Sam. Dean was shit out of luck though, Sam wasn’t phased at all. “So, get this! The trucks aren’t only low-jacked, they’ve got permanent net connections through their comms channels. I won’t have to port in to access it – Rowena gave me the access codes to the company networks. If there’s nothing going on, which there shouldn’t be with only two patients and five guards, I can still be working on how to defeat the Host.”

“Great, Sam. That’s great,” Dean said sourly. “Cas gets to swan around playing doctors. You get to do your nerd shit when there’s nothing else to do. Me? I get to play meathead guard! Fan-fucking-tastic!”

“Bet you 100 carbons that one of the other guards has porn they’ll share with you. They do this all the time, must have plenty of tricks to pass the time.”

Why did everyone think that all he wanted was to watch porn? Ok, so they did have a point. He loved to watch some hot chick action. He’d even occasionally watched some dude on dude stuff. Not that he’d admit to anyone that it got him as hot under the collar as his more usual viewing did. Porn and shooting stuff weren’t the sum total of Dean Winchester…er, well…no! There was…um…booze, and…um…Oh fuck it! He was a shallow guy, ok? Didn’t mean he had no feelings. He’d quash them and ignore them, but he had them. He was more than people gave him credit for. HE WAS!

“You are indeed so much more, my Bright Soul. If you were only the things you think others see of you, you would never have been my father’s choice.”

Dean stammered a weak thank-you to Cas. The angel had read his mind and it had freaked Dean out a bit. However, what had his mind and his stomach doing cartwheels was Cas’s assertion that a deity he didn’t believe in believed in Dean Winchester. The total definition of a mindfuck!

“Perhaps it would be wisest, if for the first and last shifts of this drive, you were to sit up front with Meg. I am told that it is customary for one of the guards to sit with the driver as protection.”

Dean blinked at Cas, trying to grasp what he was hinting at. He mimicked the Host’s inquisitive head tilt.

“The secure hospital that we are destined for is not at the border. We would have at least another hour and a half drive to reach a suitable crossing point. As yet, the new plan only gets us that far. We have patients to deliver and guards that need to return to their families. The plan you and Meg devised to confuse my brothers was sound. It is my belief that they were grasping at hay…”

“Grasping at straws, Cas. It’s grasping at straws.”

“Very well then. My brothers were grasping at straws, attempting to block all possible escape route. If they had known we were at the OrcainEva airfield in Iylosa, why not storm it. They have little respect for who gets caught in the crossfire. You must know that about them by now?”

Dean agreed.

“So, you and Meg make a good team. She can be trusted, Dean. I am not clear what it is that the MacLeod’s want from us, but they will do their utmost to get us safe across the border, of that I am convinced. Once we are in the True North – then we will need to be vigilant. It might be prudent for Sam to solicit Charlie’s help once we are out of the Combined Territories. Use the time we are on the road to devise a strategy for crossing the northern border, Dean.”

Cas didn’t wait for Dean’s answer. He turned away and strode purposefully to the rear of the transport vehicle, his tan trench coat flapping behind him.

Dean could do that. He could work with Meg a little while longer. There was a weird fluttering in his stomach when he replayed the conversation with Cas. Cas believed in him. Cas knew Dean was more than what he seemed on the outside. The strange ill-at-ease angel had somehow seen straight through all the carefully constructed facades to the very core of Dean Winchester and, what was more, the rogue Host had liked what he had seen. Bright Soul. Dean liked that nickname far better than the pompous prophetic title of the Righteous Man.

“Hey Meg, ok if I ride up front with you for a bit? Think we got some planning to do.”

Meg grinned at him and ushered him into shotgun.

*****************************************************************************************************

He was like a kid in a candy store! Sam was swimming in data. When Rowena had given him the access codes to OrcainEva company net access, Sam had assumed that it would be the minimum access necessary for him to link through to the net without drawing on the port-free abilities. Which made sense. He logged in through his ‘company identity’, Joe Perry, and if anyone from the Netwatch scanned his activities they wouldn’t think anything of it, so long as he was savvy about using the right protection programmes on any potentially incriminating searches or communications. What Sam hadn’t expected was that Rowena had also given him access to OrcainEva corporate data. Specifically, there were encoded files on research that the company’s scientists were doing on cyberpsychosis and ways to prevent the damaging effects of long-term commercial braindance. He’d yet to crack the code. Pride had so far stopped him from sending it to Charlie. If it came to it, he would. However, he was mad at her for stirring up trouble with the unsanctioned replaying of Cas’s work. Her motives were undoubtedly good, if misguided. All the same she should have foreseen how much it would rile Lucifer, and probably Michael too.

It wasn’t only pride driving Sam to decipher the information himself. The juxtaposition of the Coven’s untrustworthiness and the seemingly altruistic actions of the OrcainEva research branch had his mind in a whirl. Why? In a world as violent and unjust as Wēalhaz the company was clearly making some serious money from other people’s suffering. That conduct was consistent with the grasping nature of the Coven. Helping and healing others? That didn’t fit with the profile Sam had built of them. Admittedly the MacLeod’s and Meg had only helped them. Sam wondered how long that would last. Like Cas and Dean, Sam was waiting for the other shoe to drop and their allies to turn on them demanding a hefty recompense.

He’d hardly made any headway when one of the guards tapped him on the shoulder. Time for Sam to start his shift. The timing was quite apt, no matter how much he begrudged the interruption. He needed time away from pounding at the gatekeeper programmes for his next move to filter through his consciousness. Nothing in the protocols that they’d agreed with Meg and Crowley said he couldn’t run algorithms or probability calculations in the background while he was on shift. They hadn’t explicitly banned the use of his multi-tasking functionality. He’d willingly exploit the oversight.

Sam promised himself that at the first indication that he was overtaxing himself he’d pull the plug and file wherever he’d got to away on his memory chip. Cas had taught him a couple of useful tricks for staving off the worst of the effects multi-tasking at high speed could create in anyone not used to it. Besides none of this was net-running. It was all work on data Sam already had in his head.

If he needed any further distraction, there was also the other project he wanted to get underway. No need for subterfuge on this one. Not in the initial stages, anyway. It would be easy to pass off his digging into the life of the great media mogul as another lunatic with a crush on Her Highness, the Queen of Moons. Enough people disregarded the fact that Charlie only had eyes for women for Sam’s ‘idle’ browsing to be commonplace. Until he wanted to get at the really juicy information that was – but that would need to be done through a different connection with all of his usually deceptions, deflections, and protection programmes in place. As he’d wrestled with his pride over sending her the files to decode, his anger about her irresponsible actions turned to an unscratchable itch to know the person behind the masks. She was their fallback plan. What new risks were he, Cas, and Dean opening themselves up to when they inevitably had to turn to someone other than the Coven for assistance.

Sam took his position in front of the pods willingly. He double checked the safety on his AarasaKa , holding it in the same position as the other two guards. With a wry smile, he mused that he hadn’t had to do anything like this since his days at the Chad Hulwick Memorial Law Enforcement Academy. Being fast-tracked into the Public Order Rapid-Response Task Forces meant that he had by-passed much of the tedium that most of his classmates had to endure after graduation patrolling the streets of the mid and outer zones of Mór Mears and the other Midwest megacities.

His shift passed uneventfully. Dean had slipped into soldier mode when they had shared a few hours on shift. It was a side of Dean that Sam had never wanted to see of his brother again. It reminded him too much of the damage that years of abuse from their father had done to Dean. Sam preferred smart-mouthed, cocky Dean to the stoic, perfect soldier Dean. Sam was relieved to step away and retreat undisturbed into his research again. He had reached one conclusion during his investigations. He was going to open the files himself. Digging around into more of the public realm data on Charlie had given him some ideas on what might be inside. It was funny how random things sparked trains of thought. Sam had stumbled across a conspiracy theory website which had links with an organisation that Charlie had been known to provide donations to from her personal fortune. Once upon a time, Sam would have denounced it as crackpot baloney. If he was in a bad enough mood, he might even have sent one of his team digging to find the people behind the site and along with their identities, evidence that they were enemies of the state. Now, as a traitor himself, Sam’s investigator instincts told him that this was not smoke without flame. Why he believed that part of the ultimate plan to free Wēalhaz was to create a physical anti-dote made perfect sense. He suspected that the Coven and therefore the research scientists at OrcainEva knew it too. Instead of helping to clean up the environmental damage on the planet, Sam now believed that the Host were leaking a biotoxin into the water and slowly, imperceptibly poisoning the people.

Why the fuck had Castiel not told him that? Sam decided better to keep his powder dry until he had some proof. Until then, he wouldn’t treat Castiel any differently and he sure as hell wouldn’t give Dean a hint that there was anything hinky going on with the Angel. That would be a recipe for disaster they could ill afford right now.

****************************************************************************************************

Castiel scrunched his eyes shut. He was a disgrace. He could never live up to his Father’s expectations, he knew that now. How he desperately wanted the security of his bunker again. There he was shut off from the world of the humans. In the deepest parts of the bunker, unless he chose to amplify it, he could more easily shut off the Host radio without wasting energy deliberately tuning out the endless, innumerable conversations. In those cavernous underground rooms, he had everything he could want. He longed to spend his days pottering with his bees and his plants. Yes, he was big enough to admit that he also wished to be able to numb everything with drugs again. Only one other thing could help to numb his pain. That wasn’t likely to happen. It was nice fantasy to indulge in though. Him and Dean side by side in the bunker going about their lives together. In the short time that they had been forced together, Castiel had become increasingly intrigued with the Righteous Man. Dean’s foibles making it all the more endearing that underneath all the masks, Dean was driven by the need to protect and save. It was a pointless exercise imagining them living out the rest of Dean’s days together. But Castiel even pondered the idea of suggesting to Dean that he get downloaded onto a stack as he aged. That way they could be together for ever.

None of that would happen. In his excitement at discovering his part in Crëwr’s plan, Castiel had never once taken the time to envisage quite how bad his brothers’ vengeance could be. The Saviours of Wēalhaz would stop the Archangels and their faction of the Host and rescue the planet from them. Of that Castiel was certain. He berated himself that he’d never stopped to think about the viciousness of his brothers’ response.

Nothing in the prophesies suggested that in rescuing the planet form the Corca Oidce, the Immortal would start a civil war amongst his own people. The numbers of voices dropping off the Host radio at an alarming rate implied that he had. The question Castiel had yet to answer was, who was leading the Host uprising against the three remaining Archangels? He had not enlisted the help of anyone other than Gabriel and Balthazar. One of them had involved Inias without Castiel’s knowledge. But Gabriel was dead and as much as it hurt to think about it so, Castiel suspected, were Balthazar and Inias. If not, they soon would be. No other names sprang immediately to mind. Castiel could be of little practical help to them right now. Selfish as it might be considered, Castiel had a job to do with Sam and Dean and he was going to do it. Civil war or no civil war, the people of this planet were still living under the oppression of the Host. It was his duty to fulfil the mission set out for him by their Father. In the process, maybe Castiel might find redemption.

Normally he could numb pain and pretend to find his creativity with some light self-medicating. He’d smoked the last of his Nephilit Weed before Crowley et al. had shown up. Nothing else except the detox medication Sam had brewed was on hand. It took away symptoms of the withdrawal but solved none of the problems that Castiel used drugs for. He was bored. Crowley’s logic for each person’s place on the team had been solid. Castiel couldn’t dispute his or Dean’s roles. Unlike Sam, Castiel had no anti-dote to concoct. It had always been Dean’s destiny to be the strategist of the three. He needed to be the one coming up with the plan. Castiel had nothing to do but monitor screens he didn’t understand. Press a button to send status reports at the required intervals and be ready to render either of their charges unconscious again if necessary. Unluckily for him, that left a whole heap of brooding time.

“Sam, is there anything I can do to assist you?” He deliberately kept his voice low and pointing to a blank screen on a standard issue medical tablet. The subterfuge was weak, but it would have to do. It was unlikely any of the other guards were interested in what he was talking to Sam about, but there’d been enough screw-ups so far that Castiel wanted to reduce his chances of creating any more.

“Hey! Uh…I can’t really think of anything right now. If I do, I’ll…wait a second.” Sam replied in hushed tones, scrunching his nose up in annoyance. “Got so focused on getting our asses off that airfield, we forgot something!”

Castiel had an idea what Sam might be getting at. He didn’t offer his conjecture. Instead, he opted for an encouraging, “go on.”

“Unless you’ve been secretly doing it, none of us has been monitoring the net for news of what else Lucifer, Michael and Raphael are up to. It’s all well and good us assuming what’s happened to Gabriel, but we don’t know it for a fact…”

“I…uh…well I do. It’s…” Castiel choked on the words, “it’s true, Sam. With the commotion on Host Radio – no doubt about it. There’s no trace of anyone sending out Gabriel’s orders to the lower orders under his command that weren’t at Vesperien.” Castiel left the disclosure at that. Civil war amongst his own race didn’t concern Sam. No point dragging angelic dirty laundry out into the open any more than was necessary. Besides if he could do nothing about it, Sam couldn’t either.

“Sorry, Cas. I know you thought a lot of him, even if you didn’t see eye to eye on…” Sam paused.

“It’s ok. As I told Dean, there will be time to grieve later. Now, we need to understand what lengths Lucifer is willing to go to for revenge, and how far Michael and Raphael are willing to back him. If you would be so kind as to give me the access codes that Rowena gave you, I will see what the media has to say. Unfortunately, the only access I have is for the medical monitors – the report is directly linked back to a central OrcainEva support building.”

Sam readily typed the codes onto the tablet.

Back at his station, Castiel used the jackport in his wrist to bypass the medical data. It was a perfectly understandable activity for a company employee stuck on the road to do when taking a rest break. He logged onto the main onworld news streams. Instantly he wished he hadn’t.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on the road angst.

Retribution. No other word could describe the actions taken against anyone considered to have helped the fugitives Castiel, and Sam and Dean Winchester. Justice, a word bandied around by the official media reports of the Combined Territories, was neither blind nor carrying an even set of scales. Some of those the authorities believed had been involved were discreetly taken care of. Tucked away in the depths of the news sheets from both the on and offworld sources were reports of a fire at a small bar in Lotrard Deamham and an unbranded coffee shop in Choyotha. The list of casualties from both included an Ellen Harvelle, an unknown man identified only as Dr Badass, and an Eileen Leahy. Others were splashed across the front pages. One branded a corporate assassination by a rival unnamed foreign entity which killed the Head of Research and Development at MatraWessColt – Kevin Tran. Then there was a public execution, broadcast live across all four territories, of the notoriously troublesome bounty hunter Bobby Singer, branded a collaborator with some of the Midwest’s and Northeast’s most wanted domestic terrorists.

The death of the Archangel of the West had been kept quiet for days. It had been blamed on an unfortunate road traffic accident on his way to meet with an international law specialist from Keelams in the True North. According to officials close to the Archangel’s office, the meeting was due to take place regarding troubles that Vesperien had been having in Escaria and Gleigera. Uriel had been named as his successor taking up his old role in the West again. A previously unknown Host, Hester, had been installed as Premiere in the True North. Anyone who knew anything about the Host and their angelic powers would know that the story could not possibly be true, well not entirely. No angel could die from a mere road traffic accident. However, the numbers of those who knew what it really took to dispatch an angel, let alone an archangel, were minute. For whatever personal reasons, good or bad, they kept that information to themselves. So, the media reports of Gabriel’s untimely death persisted.

Ominously for the three Saviours of Wēalhaz, another event was also emblazoned across the news. It was carried by every media corporation except one – Lorien Media Network Corporation. An explosion had happened on Moondor. The exact details of what had happened were hazy and rumour was rife. Lorien Media refused to release an official statement confirming or denying that the blast had taken place at their offworld headquarters. Top at the list of speculations was that in a rarely seen occurrence the full board had been attending a meeting in person. The photographs of what purported to be the rubble of the building made it impossible to believe that if they had been, anyone in the building would have survived. More importantly none of the board members had been seen in public since before the apparent attack on their company.

*****************************************************************************************************

“Pull over,” Meg demanded out of nowhere.

“On the side of the road? Really? That in the company manual?”

What kind of idiot suggested that they stop in the middle of nowhere driving a truck with dangerous psychos loaded in the back? It was begging for trouble. So far there’d been nothing to indicate that either of their passengers was going to wake up unexpectedly, didn’t mean that they wouldn’t. Dean hadn’t been impressed to learn that Rowena had hitched them a ride on the transport with the leader of a notorious San Marras booster gang on-board. A fact that she’d neglected to inform them of. Dean had learnt it form one of the guards who had congratulated him on having the honour on his first job for OrcainEva.

“What is in the company manual is that only the designated transport driver – that’d be me – should be at the wheel during any border crossings or other official searches.”

That explained it then. There’d been a flashing sign on the overheads and on the truck’s GPS that there was a roadblock ahead.

“I get back in the driver’s seat after we get through the blockade?” It wasn’t really a question. They’d agreed Dean could drive for the rest his shift upfront to stop him annoying Meg with comments on her driving, her music taste and, Meg had added testily, to stop the really annoying little clicking sounds Dean made with his jaw if he wasn’t setting his servos whirring because he was bored.

“Yes – I’m not about to welch on our deal. I’ll get Morton up here and you go aggravate baby brother or Clarence until we get clear of the blockade.”

Dean knew why Meg wanted him in the back. It was safer. Less chance of detection. 

“Lucky for you there’s nothing in my rear-view mirror,” Dean said smugly as he jerked the truck over onto the verge.

“We got 60 seconds to do the switch or the tracker will send an alarm back to central control. So, move your ass, Winchester.”

Dean jumped out of the cab and raced to the back. He rapped on the back door in the pattern the crew had agreed before setting off. In their haste to change places, Dean and Morton bumped shoulders both growling at the unwanted contact. With three seconds to spare, the trucked lurched forward again. Dean braced against the side of the truck to steady himself. He gave a cursory greeting to Robertson and Sam before heading to the spare guard’s seat. Despite Meg’s quip it would be too obvious to drop straight into talking with Castiel and even more so telling Robertson to take a hike so Dean could be with his brother.

He had a conundrum to solve. The Coven had so far proved to be true to their word. The other shoe had dropped several times since he and Sam had left Nua Emboraca, but not once had Meg been behind those incidents. However, Meg wasn’t the one pulling the strings, was she? Then again, Rowena had been on the level too – on the outside. Crowley might give the impression that he was his own man and called the shots for himself. It wasn’t the case though; Fergus MacLeod was a ‘momma’s boy’.

****************************************************************************************************

Castiel’s hands trembled as he showed Dean the various news reports he’d downloaded. He wished he could have spared Dean the knowledge. He couldn’t. It wasn’t like the bad news was going to stop anytime soon.

“Looks like it is my turn to say I’m sorry,” he offered. Then he stopped because he had no idea what else he could say. Dean didn’t seem the type to want sympathy or coddling of any type and his own people skills were weak to say the least.

Dean’s eyes glassed over. His mouth hung open. He slammed his flesh fist into Castiel’s workstation, “Motherfuckers!”

Castiel knew the outburst hadn’t mollified Dean in the least, even so he couldn’t stop himself jumping when chrome collided repeatedly with the side of the truck.

Robertson was at Castiel’s station in a second. Sam hung back. His reticence had the air of a man who knew when it was better to let Dean’s emotions blow themselves out than intervene.

“It’s alright. A bit of bad personal news. Go back and join Campbell.” Castiel jerked his head in Sam’s direction. Robertson looked at him with distrust, frowned at Dean then turned his attention back to Castiel again. Again, Castiel motioned to where Sam was standing on guard by himself, this time not bothering to hide his irritation. “Your post? Should you be leaving it like this?”

With a harrumph at the icy way Castiel dismissed him, Robertson went back to his post next to Sam.

“How…do…you…kill…an…archangel, Castiel?” Each word Dean spoke was like a bullet being fired.

Castiel weighed his options before answering Dean in a measured tone, “Freedom before vengeance, Dean. If you die trying to avenge these deaths, who will fulfil the prophecies? Unless you have taken precautions and have a version of yourself in a Cogahd data warehouse.”

“Does Meg know? I bet Rowena does.” Dean leaned in so close that Castiel could feel the Righteous Man’s breath on his face. In another time or another universe, Castiel wished that Dean’s breath would ghost across his skin for totally different reasons. “I could always ask them.”

A pointless exercise. Meg wouldn’t know, Castiel already knew the limitations of Meg’s knowledge. Rowena might, in theory, given the history between the Host and the Coven.

“It isn’t as easy as you’d think, Dean. Even a race of people so keen on maintaining their heritage, like the Coven, lose knowledge to the mists of time.”

Dean jabbed Castiel in the shoulder with a chrome digit, “You tell me, or I get them to tell me. Your choice, angel.” Dean straightened up his cybernetic arm trained dead-centre of Castiel’s forehead. “You think I buy what you’re selling? If Rowena could incapacitate Lucifer, she can kill him.”

Dean’s logic was flawed. If Rowena knew how, she would have when presented with the opportunity. After all, she had come to the truck stop prepared to deal with an Archangel without knowing that Lucifer would be there. Pointing that out would be like covering himself in blood and jumping into a tank full of sharks.

“There is another way. You don’t have to kill Michael or Lucifer to get the revenge you need. Our father created…” Should he tell Dean now? If he didn’t no-one else would, not with Gabriel dead – no scratch that – with Gabriel murdered by his older brothers for daring to get off the fence and do the right thing by their father.

“Created what? Don’t hold out on me, Cas! Those bastards were after you – to make an example of you. They’ve killed the ones you were closest to. They’ve very publicly murdered everyone I care about, except Sam. Hell, the deals they offered us? They had death sentence all over them! Tell me the truth. If Sam and I hadn’t believed you, if we’d handed you over to them, they would have killed us instead of paying us off, wouldn’t they?”

“I expect so, yes.”

The grim reality of the Archangels’ insatiable need for their own way without caring one iota about how they got what they wanted hung in the air between them. Neither Dean nor Castiel moved for several minutes. The uncomfortable silence was interrupted when Castiel’s workstation beeped for the transport’s doctor to send one of the scheduled reports on their patients’ status.

With an apologetic look, Castiel busied himself collecting the readings.

Dean stayed where he was. A muscle in his neck twitched every so often, when Dean didn’t have his jaw clenched tight, his teeth grinding together.

Castiel would have loved to have a magic panacea that would make Dean and, no doubt when he heard the news, Sam’s pain disappear. It was a well-known fact that the path of a chosen one was never easy. On every planet, in every galaxy that Castiel had ever visited, the prophecies all had tales of saviours. The details changed, but one thing remained constant. From the moment that they were created, the life of the being who would save their home world, their country, or their town would be fraught with challenges. It was patently a rite of passage that to become the ‘Saviour’, you had to overcome your demons. If he had been able to change things with a snap of his angelic fingers, Castiel would actually be doing something far crueller to Sam and Dean than Michael, Lucifer, and Raphael were doing. As the Coven said: “A true warrior can only be forged through the trials of battle.”

The degree of anguish radiating off Dean had one positive outcome. Castiel determined that death was too good for Michael and Lucifer. Their father had anticipated the creatures his two eldest would become and had devised a cage to hold them where they would be subjected to every sick punishment that they had imposed on other races.

***************************************************************************************************

Sam did a quick calculation in is head. They’d been on the road for 8 hours and crossed two state borders. Only 4 left to go – give or take a bit. They needed out of this truck – all four of them. Everything was strained. The longer the trip had gone on the more evident it had been to Robertson and Morton that Perry, Milton, Masters, and Tyler knew each other. Without intending to, the knowledge had created something of a ‘them and us’ tension no-one dared to speak about. Tensions like that led to suspicions, which in turn led to divisions and, if left unchecked, could put everyone’s safety at risk under the right conditions.

They’d been lucky at the roadblock. Human GIs had been in charge and had barely bothered to check credentials. The truck was registered, was showing up on all net systems roughly where it should have been for the scheduled transfer, and it had the correct number of life signs onboard. They had checked Meg’s license and once that checked out as genuine, they had waved them through without wanting to confirm or get eyes on anyone else other than Meg and Morton. In his previous existence, if his law enforcers had been so slapdash during a period of increased security, Sam would have disciplined them.

Worse than the tension between the old hands and the imposters, Castiel was keeping something from him. Technically, he was not telling Sam about something else, because he had already not told Sam about the biotoxin. Dean was in on whatever it was too, judging by his brother’s morose frame of mind. With the time left on the road, the crew was due one more shift change before they arrived at Grohurst. Sam determined that he would forego looking further into the toxin and would use the time to find out whatever it was alongside the research on Charlie he kept pushing aside. When the time came, Sam regretted looking for it. However, Sam had one thing going for him that Dean didn’t. Sam functioned from a place of hope, a belief that things would come through in the end no matter how bleak they looked. They looked pretty depressing from whatever angle you looked at things. Clearly even Cas had underestimated the Archangels of the Midwest and the Northeast.

“Bobby?”

All Dean could manage in response was, “Uh-huh.”

“Dean…I…Bobby…Bobby…I”

Dean glared at him, daring Sam not to go down the ‘chick-flick’ moment.

Sam swallowed down his emotions on the loss of the man who would have been a better father to them than John, if John hadn’t been too jealous to let the boys spend any length of time at ‘Uncle Bobby’s’.

“Can’t…mustn’t let on…”

Sam got it. “Think there’s any more traitors out there? Other people besides this Singer guy who’ve been helping that Jimmy dude? What about Lorien Media too? The whole board? It’s a real shame though – I…” he forced his cheeks to pinken a little, “I kinda thought that Her Highness was all sorts of hot…in a corporate executive kind of way.”

“Yeah,” Robertson leered licking his lips. “Definitely a shame that her and I’m guessing that means that babe of an assistant of hers, Dorothy whatever her name was, is gone too.” Robertson paused his brow wrinkled as he apparently thought of something that wasn’t boning Charlie or Dorothy. “You think that’s true? That report about Moondor? Something doesn’t add up. Can’t put my finger on it…” He shrugged. “Way, way, way above my paygrade though. Why waste time I could spend doing…other things,” he waggled his eyebrows at Dean followed by a knowing wink, “worrying about whether someone’s putting out false news reports?” Robertson flopped back in his seat again, done with the conversation. Sam was glad he’d taken the bait.

‘Something doesn’t add up’…’false news reports’. Sam’s need to have hope grabbed onto the two throwaway statements. If reports of the attack on Lorien Media Network Corporation were exaggerated, who had released them, Charlie or the Host? Either was possible. Sam wouldn’t put it past the Archangels to send it out to Team Free Will…how had Dean’s stupid name stuck? Sam shook his head at Dean’s need to name things he was fond of. That was another rabbit hole Sam would dive down later. He pulled himself back to the original train of thought about the Angels wanting them to believe another avenue of assistance had been closed off. It was also not beyond the realms of possibility that Charlie had orchestrated the reports of her own demise for exactly the opposite reason. The spark of hope Sam was nurturing told him that Charlie was alive and well on Moondor. All he had to do was work out a failproof way of drawing her out without alerting the Host.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Sam and Dean learn a few more things about the Host's toxin & Orcain-Eva's testing facility  
> \- Cas attempts yet another deal with the devil (aka Crowley)

Dean shuddered at the sight of the forbidding structure at the end of the road. They were still a mile away from the compound gate and yet the horizon was filled with the sight of the main asylum building. It reminded him of his time at Michael’s pleasure, although in comparison the military retraining facility in Worwitchton was intimate in comparison. Staying upfront may not have been his best idea. Sure, the guards were primed with the corporate information and wouldn’t give him more than a cursory once over, so long as the paperwork all stacked up with the corporate mainframe. Dean forced himself to look back at the Grohurst River Asylum. From what Meg had said there were four other buildings on the compound, each three quarters of the size of the main building. All this to house maybe three hundred ‘patients’? Admittedly these were some of the worst of the worst in the whole of the Combined Territories and one of the few endeavours that the four Archangels had agreed should be done collectively. Surely, this was overkill?

As if reading his thoughts, Meg told him, “Lab rats. Testing goes on here for…well…anything a Host owned company produces that needs to be tested for ‘effectiveness’.”

Dimly in the recesses of his memory Dean recalled that Wēalhaz used to use animals to test things. Using the criminally insane and psychotic was an improvement on that practice. Not by much. But an improvement, nonetheless. “They need that much space for testing?”

“Each outbuilding does a different type of testing. Then, there’s the degree of separation required between different corporations and…” Meg shot Dean a quizzical look, “would you want to fill the space with wall to wall lunatics? They need to keep a degree of separation between patients at all times…in case of incidents.”

Dean shrugged. Seemed like a shit ton of land used for housing immobilised chunks of flesh. “How come you know so much about this place?”

“Used to work here, “ Meg explained at the surprised expression Dean couldn’t stop. “Bet that wasn’t on the little dossier you and Sammy Boy collected on me either.”

Dean huffed. Of course, it wasn’t. Same as her status as half-Coven and that she had once been Rowena’s bodyguard hadn’t.

“Want a look around before we hit the road again? There are staff quarters that the transport teams can use, so long as you and Moose can share a room – actually they’re more like cupboards but they’re mostly set up for two. Believe me, your brother is going to wild over what they do here. He’s gonna want to stay.”

What was Meg’s angle here? As far as Dean was concerned, they’d used all the luck they were going to get avoiding detection since the rescue from Lucifer. Wasn’t staying in one place even it was only for 24 hours tempting fate?

“Have a little faith, Dean-o! Not about to sell you out. Besides, I am being honest about Sam wanting to see the labs. He might even go so far as to phrase it as he ‘needs’ to when I get him access to what’s they’re working on in one of those buildings.” Meg bit the corner of her lip and tilted her head as she stopped at a traffic signal that controlled the scanning of incoming vehicles. “If you’re having problems trusting me, trust Sam. He’s your brother after all.”

The light changed and Meg inched the truck into the scanning zone. As driver Meg was the one that had to interface with the guards and the automated checkpoints. Dean took the opportunity to observe her. How a person behaved when they were focused on you and how they behaved when they had to give their attention to something else could tell you more about them than their words or intentional body language ever could. Meg was a merc and she had some Coven blood running through her veins, masking intent would be easy enough. Dean detested not being sure about someone. Usually he knew in his gut whether they were trustworthy or not. For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom that out with Meg.

“We make the decision together. The four of us. You and Cas tell everything you know without holding anything back. Sam and I get to ask whatever questions we want. You two answer – honestly. Once everyone’s satisfied, they got all the information they need to decide, we put it to a vote. No split decisions. We either agree unanimously that we’re staying for Sam to poke around in the labs, or we hit the road again. Capisce?”

“Capisce? Seriously? Uh, yeah…ok…ok…I understand you perfectly. All for one and one for all or some shit like that,” Meg grumbled.

The signal on the scanner turned green. “Thank fuck for that! Another fifteen to twenty and we’re free of our cargo. When we get off this monstrosity, go straight to the employee cafeteria. It’s always noisy enough to have private conversations and it’s one of the few places without audio recording. It won’t seem strange for a crew to eat together.”

Dean was about to ask when they could legitimately ditch the two regular OrcainEva guards, when Meg told him, “Leave Morton and Robertson to me. Helps to have been the boss’s boss’s bodyguard.”

True to Meg’s prediction twenty minutes later the two patients had been transferred to the facility’s care and fifteen after that Sam, Dean and Cas were in the cafeteria. It was a disgusting burger. Meat substitute patties never came close to the real thing, but this one had the taste, texture and consistency of cardboard. It was almost inedible. Dean managed to force it down. If they were going to hightail it out of there, who knows when they’d next get to eat.

“You actually ate food from here?” Meg squawked. “That’s…wow…that’s…um…impressive…I think. Cast iron stomach I take it? Props. Right, you’re up first Clarence. I think the Winchesters deserve to know a couple of minor details that you’ve been holding out on.”

“That assumption is incorrect. I have not, as you put it ‘been holding out’, I have merely been waiting for the appropriate time. Sam and Dean had to be fully committed and understand their place in the prophecies. I am not convinced that is so, however I agreed to the terms of this discussion and I will abide by them.”

The look Dean exchanged with his brother clearly exclaimed, ‘what the fuck’. There was more? What else could this absentee god expect from them to rectify the misdeeds of his children?

****************************************************************************************************

Sam tried to quell the churning in his stomach. This was all above board, so far. He and Dean had been granted access to the laboratory suites. The tour, authorised by the CEO of Orcain-Eva herself, was one to orientate new employess. No-one would question why they were here after Rowena had arranged the tour for them. Of course, the Winchetser plan deviated slightly from what had been in the introductions Rowena had sent to the Head of Research at the facility. When they hjad spoken to Meg about the visit, she had been emphatic that there was no monitoring of the communications or net searches from within the highest clearance level parts of the building. Coincidentally, having the backing of the CEO meant that Sam and Dean’s orientation would take them into those zones.

“You have video on those implants?”

Dean frowned at him.

“Well?”

“Uh…never bothered to check. Not had much of a use for it. Even if I do, I certainly don’t have any transfer wetware – that I’m aware of. So, if I have it, it won’t be up to date – I’ve not had any upgrades on the ocular since…”

“Surely Michael must have wanted his elites to be able to capture footage, for surveillance. It’s pretty standard stuff for military or law enforcement…” Sam paused. No point riling Dean up. If they stood out here bickering much longer it would look suspicious to the site’s security guards. No question that the asylum monitored all the comings and goings between the buildings. “Could you try? See what happens. Might be our best shot – there’s only so much even my memory can take on board.”

Dean squinted. His lips moved in what Sam thought were repetitions of some command to engage the record function. He looked absurd.

“Without looking like you’re constipated would be helpful.”

“Holy, fucking shit, Sammy. Yeah, I got it. I can playback too – but…”

Dean’s cybernetic eye flashed black for a moment, the other glazed over at that same time.

“No! No, I can’t shift the file anywhere without having a proper port to jack into.”

Sam reached out and pressed the intercom button.

“Just record everything you can in the lab areas, and we’ll worry about downloading and making sense of it later.”

The intercom crackled, “State your name, clearance, and reason for the visit.”

“Joe Perry and Steven Tyler. We’re part of a new task force Ms MacLeod is setting up – her office should have sent through the paperwork for our orientation.”

Sam flashed the camera his most innocent smile.

“You’re wearing transport guard uniforms.”

“All part of the cover for the rest of the company, ma’am,” Dean said as stepped up beside Sam. “Ms McLeod thought it would be useful for us to understand different jobs within the corporation.”

“Is that so?” The woman sounded unconvinced. “IDs then, while I…hmm…well, I see…uh-huh…right, there we go. Ok, that makes some sense I guess, make use of your skills from previous employers while you’re learning the ropes. I’ll be down in two shakes.”

In a show of brotherly telepathy, Sam and Dean pocketed their company IDs and wiped their palms on their pants in complete synchronicity. The look they exchanged said everything about their relief at getting inside with the minimal amount of hassle.

“Wonder what Meg’s got Cas doing?” Dean asked with a chuckle.

“Not that…not what you’re insinuating.”

“Why not, they have this weird-ass connection going on with the whole pet name thing!”

“Dude,” Sam groused, “you call the guy Cas.”

“At least that’s part of his name, not a wholly different one altogether, like Clarence!”

Sam didn’t get to answer his brother as the door slowly opened to reveal a tall striking woman with bright red hair pulled into an intricate updo and matching crimson lipstick and nails.

“Abaddon. I’ll be your guide. Please, stay with me at all times. Ask whatever you want, although I may not be able to answer all your questions - even with your level of clearance.”

Abaddon set quite a pace. It suggested to Sam that she was willing to comply with the letter of the instruction, rather than the spirit. Meg had been insistent that he would find some ‘exceedingly useful’ information behind these doors. That to quote her, he would be “as happy as a sand lark on a deserted beach”. That was not what this whistle-stop tour of the place made him. Quite the opposite.

Making sure that Abaddon wasn’t within earshot, by grabbing onto Dean’s arm to make him hang back, he whispered, “You are recording all this, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Stop being a bitch about this, Sam. I can record. You asked me to. I am. End of, ok?”

“Sorry. I’m worried I’ll miss something vital. Don’t you think she’s being kind of evasive?”

“I think she believes she’s in charge and that we’re wasting her precious time. That’s all. We catching up with bossyboots, or we waiting for her to yell at us for dawdling?”

“No. That might make her increase the pace out of spite.” Sam quickened his pace until he was right behind Abaddon again as she came to a halt by a tank.

“This is what I believe…Ms MacLeod…wanted you two chumps to see.”

His hunch might have been correct. Abaddon’s disdain for her boss was evident in both her tone and the pause before and after Rowena’s name. The two had to have clashed over something.

“This is what happens to someone exposed long-term to immersion in and consumption of highly contaminated water. Not the water that hasn’t been treated with the help from the Host but treated water. Not a pretty sight, is it? Naturally, we have to keep the…er...patient…unconscious during exposure…”

“Why?”

Abaddon stared at Dean like he’d crawled out from under a rock.

“Because insanity, further psychosis, and all manner of mental instability are created along with the physical manifestations…unless you add a very hefty dose of Ultimate Equalizer. No human body, even one with multiple cyber upgrades, can withstand the necessary dosage for too long.”

Sam could see Dean struggling to keep his mouth shut.

“What do you mean by hefty?

“1g.”

Sam and Dean stared at her open mouthed. Ultimate Equalizer was twice as strong as Equalizer. If the normal prescribed dose of Equalizer was 25g, then 1g of the stronger drug was an enormous amount.

“Shit!” It was Dean’s turn to lean into Sam and inform him sotto voce that, “Michael’s doctors only intravenously pumped 25mg of that shit into me for three months in my…uh…rehabilitation into the ranks. Didn’t exactly do the job, but I mean 1g a day?”

“How long has he been like this?”

Abaddon swiped a hand over the panel on the front of the tank. “Twelve months of total saturation.”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. According to the data he’d gleaned so far, the toxin had been introduced gradually to areas declared clean less than five years ago. Most people then retained their own water purification routines, not relying on government installed systems, long after an area had been declared clean – because humans were after all creatures of habit. However, it did explain why the rates of those with some form of psychosis, cyber or otherwise, were steadily increasing. Although the use of psychosis-inducing narcotics hadn’t increased dramatically. That gave him something to work with until they could get at the recordings Dean was making. With that nugget of information tucked away, Sam allowed himself to stop fussing over the rate at which Abaddon was rushing them through the facility.

*****************************************************************************************************

24hours later, the four of them piled into a hire car provided by Orcain-Eva, registered in Meg’s name. Meg drove them towards their crossing point at Savisak, hugging as close as possible to border towns but taking the most long-winded route possible. She stopped outside the town, pulling up in front of a small independent coffee shop.

“This is as far as I go, boys. One final cup of coffee for old time’s sake and then…so long.”

Castiel found them two tables that they could push together, as there weren’t any unoccupied that sat four. Sam followed him to the tables. Dean stayed beside Meg to help with the order.

There was nothing left to say to Meg. Everything they needed to say had been said the day before while Dean and Sam were on their tour of the facility. At one point, Castiel had entertained the notion of whether the prophecy could have been wrong. Was their team one of four, not three? In spite of his musings, not even the Coven’s sacred texts spoke of a fourth member to the team. Castiel was superstitious and obedient enough to what he believed to be his father’s will that he couldn’t bring himself to be the one to make the move. If Meg had initiated it during their time yesterday, though. Castiel wasn’t so sure that he’d have refused Meg’s company. As it was things remained as they were written – the three saviours of Wēalhaz.

Sam sat in silence with him as they waited for Meg and Dean.

Castiel expected that Sam was already working his way through what he’d learnt. The revelation that he wasn’t facing a stable biological weapon created by the Host but a constantly mutating one, both of its own accord and as deliberately manipulated through the Host.

“Brought you some toast and honey, Clarence. Kind of like ending where we started, I guess. Remember that?”

“I do, Meg. It’s what I had while waiting for these two as well.”

It was a fitting last meal together. Meg had even bought herself a hydroponic salad. That was what she had been eating when they had first spoken through a VR link about Castiel acquiring Meg’s occasional services in the hunt for the Righteous Man and the Boy King.

“Good hunting, fellas,” Meg said fifteen minutes later. She was loud enough that other tables could hear her should they have been listening. Leaning back down to the three men, she winked and whispered, “Seacrest out.” Then Meg span on her heel and sashayed out of the coffee shop with a flirtatious flip of those long wavy locks. No casual observer would have her picked for anything more than a pretty brunette leaving her three friends to hunt the local wildlife while she did something far more interesting with her time.

Castiel drummed his fingers on the table – an irritating habit he’d picked up from Meg. To be fair to Meg, at least she made an effort to create a tune. Castiel’s drumming was no more than a mindless staccato rhythm. He waited for the effects of the weed to kick in. The relief at getting his hands on the real deal again was incredible, maybe more so than the anticipated high would be. He understood why Dean was pissed at him. In Dean’s shoes, he might be pissed at himself too. Except Dean didn’t, or rather refused to, understand that when he was high Castiel had his best thoughts. He worried far less about whether he was doing the right thing by Crëwr or not. Perhaps, most importantly of all for what he was about to do, he could convincingly play the part of anybody who wasn’t Castiel the Host with a crack in his chassis.

The border was only ten minutes away, and he needed to be sure that everything was in order in the Combined Territories before he crossed into the True North. The call needed to be placed this side of the border – in case…you know, as a precautionary measure. Although , using a burner cell phone was an ancient method of communication it was possible that someone on one of the Archangels’ staff would trace it. If the call was from within Kapron, then Team Free Will stood a better chance of getting up into the wilds where the Host’s reach faltered before anyone realised that they were there. If he made it from just over the border it wouldn’t take a genius long to find them. There was no guarantee of safety or success either way, but his chosen method seemed to have better odds.

The cell phone sat on the coffee shop table in front of him taunting him.

“Sam? Got any actual carbons on you?”

“For what, dude? Meg already shelled out for the coffees and stuff before she high-tailed it back to wherever the hell it is she’s lying low.”

“It’s not important, I just…”

Two two-carbon pieces skittered to a stop in front of him.

“Happy? “ Dean sniped, picking up the remains of his synthetic meatball sub.

Castiel furrowed his brow. “Something wrong, Dean? I believe that we have already established that YOU are not happy with my method of self-medicating. What else is the matter?”

“Nothing!”

Castiel was grateful to Sam for trying to smooth things over. Tell you what, why don’t Dean and I go find our ride while you do…um…whatever it is you needed those for. Ok? Come on, Dean let’s leave Cas to it.”

“Five minutes – round the back,” Dean grumbled around the last mouthful of his lunch.

Castiel nodded, not lifting his eyes to meet either of the Winchesters’ gazes.

He pushed one of the coins around the table in an infinity loop, while his internal clock counting down the 300 seconds. 299, 298,297…275,274, 273…253,252,251…

With only four minutes to go Castiel snatched up the other coin.

“Crowley…Rowena…Crowley…Rowena…” he muttered turning the coin over and over between his thumb and forefinger.

Aware that his counter had now reached 198 seconds to go, Castiel tossed it up in the air, watching to see which side landed upwards on the table. Crowley.

“Ferg…” before he’d finished saying his name, the phone showed Castiel Crowley’s contact details. With a deep sigh, Castiel punched the numbers ready to sell his soul to the King of the Deal one last time. At least, he hoped it was the last time.

“Feathers! To what do I owe the dubious pleasure? Can’t get enough of me? My little errand girl dumped you and run?”

Castiel ignored the jibes. He only had…120 seconds until he had to meet Dean and Sam in the parking lot. “What does the Coven know of the Cliabhán created by Crëwr?”

Crowley was silent for too long. Reluctantly, Castiel got up from the table inching his way towards the door at an agonisingly slow pace.

Dean and Sam couldn’t see him talking to Crowley. He’d stay close to the door to finish the conversation then sprint for the car park the second he got what he needed.

“The Coven as an organisation? No idea. Me? Not as much as perhaps I should without annoying research…not unless Mommy Dearest has information she hasn’t shared with the class. Come to think of it…why ask me not Rowena? You know she’s got a soft spot for you?”

“Exactly!” Cas shivered involuntarily at what Crowley was insinuating. Although, of course, Rowena knew where Castiel’s attention lay, it most certainly wasn’t her. “You willing to find out how to open it at the right time and place?” Cas ploughed on without waiting for an answer because this was Fergus MacLeod – he’d never do anything for free. So, he might as well ask rather than wait for the guy to insinuate there’d be a cost. “What will ensuring that happens cost? Send me your price over this number – you have 2 hours.”

Castiel could sense one of Crowley’s long-winded self-aggrandising speeches coming up. He dropped the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket and made his way as speedily as possible to the...the... His mind came to a screeching halt at the monstrosity that Dean was standing beside like the Deva cat with the cream.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting over the border into the True North and some more investigations and revelations

“Slow your roll, Cas! I didn’t mean you had to skid into the plate bang on five minutes. Isn’t she a beaut?”

Dean patted the metalwork of the battered replica of the only classic Trans-Am model. Not a patch on his Baby, but a passable substitution in the pinch they were in.

“What Dean means,” Sam butted in before either Dean or Cas could say anything. “Is that this hunk of scrap metal is low-tech enough that it won’t easily flag up on tracking systems – about the only modern thing on board will be the GPS.”

“You or Sammy can do that misdirection hocus pocus with the GPS can’t you?” Dean pulled a look that was a mix between pleading and brooking no discussion.

Sam flipped him off, then yanked the passenger door open.

As Sam slid into the shotgun seat, Dean told Castiel, “You’re in the back. Might be a bit of a squeeze with those legs – but guess you can always sit sideways. Not like we’re driving for hours.”

That cocked head shit again. Seriously? It ought to be getting old, but honestly, Dean was beginning to find it endearing – when it wasn’t directed at him.

Dean stepped back from the driver’s door, having thoughtfully tipped the seat forward so that Cas could climb into the back.

When Cas had clambered in, and while Sam was tearing the dashboard apart to get at the GPS wiring, Dean leaned into the car, “I know we said we’d cross at Savisak, but I’m going to drive past it for a few miles. We can double back on foot keeping a lookout for the best place to slip over into the True North. With a half-day hike to the safe house, it’s not as though the extra miles are going to be noticeable, are they?”

“We’ll have to watch for drones,” Sam added his eyes glued to the car’s wiring. “That’s how they patrol these wilderness pieces. If memory serves, they’ll be on a schedule for fly alongs between the two nearest manned border points – responsibility rotates between the Combined Territories and True North.”

“Easy enough to find a gap, right?” Dean thought he sounded more optimistic than he felt. Timing it right was going to be a nightmare. Especially when once they were officially on the other side of the border, they’d still have to hike across open country. They would need to walk for Crëwr knows how long until they could find somewhere to take their first break. In the back of his head he had this crazy plan that, if they were lucky, they’d happen upon a place where they could ‘acquire’ a car to avoid the rest of the long hike. Mentally though, he had prepared himself for the walk, and accompanying blisters.

The Trans-Am was anything but a beauty. Whatever knucklehead had built it had spared no expense on the outside. But the bits that mattered – those the moron had skimped on. She drove worse than a sack of potatoes on a hoverboard. Dean instantly felt no remorse about stealing her. He even toyed with the idea of somehow managing to take the car over the border into the True North and dumping her there. Only for a moment, though. Because, as soon as someone realised that she’d been abandoned with Kapron plates, they would start a manhunt for whoever had skipped the border. It wouldn’t matter if the border guards knew who they were looking for. It only mattered that all the True North enforcement agencies would be on alert for anyone suspicious.

Dean stuck to the plan. He had to endure a minimal amount of bitching from Sam. Because for some inexplicable reason, Sam's hip had started to hurt. Maybe it was due to the few opportunities for Sam to do anything but sit for days on end.

“A good long walk’ll sort it out!”

“I could see if I have any spare healing nanites. We use them to help keep the donor bodies in decent shape if they get injured.”

“Why can’t you do that thing with the two fingers, as you did before?”

Sam had been back to normal, well as normal as his hirvi sized brother ever got, after Cas had done that when Sam overloaded with data.

“Because that put him to sleep so his nanites could do the work without Sam taking up too much additional energy. Want to carry him until he wakes up?”

Oh. Stupid useless Host and all the limitations to their abilities. At times what they could or could not do for another person depended, in Dean’s view, whether they could be bothered or not.

“I haven’t lost the use of my leg. All I was doing was sounding Dean out for whether there might be an easier way to get up to the safehouse. I agree it’s too big a risk-taking the car over the border, so…unless we find an alternative in the first town over the border, I’ll walk. It might turn half a day into most of the day, but I can do it.”

“See, I was right!” Dean crowed, scanning the countryside alongside them for a place to cross the border.

“There, Dean. That’s the place. Where the fencing is already half torn down.”

Dean slowed to get a better look at where Cas was pointing. It could work. He’d hoped for a spot that had a feature, natural or manmade, that they could head for that would give them some cover. There was nothing like that on the horizon, so a place which others had already used was a reasonable starting point.

All he had to do now was find a suitable place to leave the car. He must have been going soft in his old age because he decided that halfway up the drive of a farmhouse only a fifteen-minute walk from the crossing point was ideal. His self-preservation instincts told him the car wasn’t far enough away. His desire to take care of his brother, who was hurting, overrode that by a long shot.

“If there’s anything you can do without, I suggest we leave it behind. The lighter we travel, the better.”

“But we have nothing much other than the clothes we’re in? You and Sam left your uniforms at Grohurst. None of us brought tablets or any other personal paraphernalia with us. What could we possibly leave behind?”

Damn but the Host was far too obtuse for his own good.

“Oh, I don’t know Cas…let me think…here how about…drugs, medications, unnecessary weapons?”

Sam chipped in, “I agree, Dean…not about the weapons though. Ok, YOU could stand to lose the concealed carry and the knife in your boot. You got enough firepower on the end of your arm. Me and Cas? We need a little extra help in a tight spot.”

“Whatever. Do it. Don’t do it. Just hurry the fuck up before someone comes up or down this driveway and sees us. We got work to do…and it ain’t gonna happen unless we get off this planet.”

Dean stormed off down the path, back out onto the road. He didn’t need to look back. He knew the others would follow him. In fact, there was an argument that not being a group of three skirting the border was more advantageous. Congratulating himself on his brilliant idea, Dean picked up his pace to double-time it to their chosen escape route and on into the True North.

*************************************************************************************************

The flat landscape reminded Castiel of the plains that you could see if you looked east from the edge of the land his bunker was under. Almost nothing on the landscape for miles in any direction. Unlike the scorched earth of the desert outside An Spiorat, this land had the potential to be a lush prairie. It wasn’t. Hadn’t been for a century or more. The potential was there, he could sense it. Uriel had complied with the treaty between the Host and the human authorities of the True North. It was no surprise to Castiel that Uriel had abided by the celan-up accord, knowing what a stickler for the rules his brother had been.

Castiel, Sam, and Dean had left the comparative safety of a lone copse several miles from the border hours ago. Sam would be hurting again by now. Castiel wished that he could do more for Sam, but the best he could provide were the spare nanites he’d offered and a shoulder to lean on if Sam could overcome his pride.

With no-one around to hear any conversation, Castiel turned on every protection alert program he had. He set every kill dragon program to be poised and ready to strike at an unknown or concealed intruder. He broadcast a clear ‘do not disturb signal’, then set about the task of coordinating the opening of the inter-universal prison that his father had created should the need ever arise to incarcerate a rebellious senior angel or an archangel.

“He knew it was ‘when’ not ‘if’,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” Dean asked, “didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing. Whining about a stone in my boot.” Castiel pantomimed a highly unconvincing removal of said stone to get Dean to back off.

A tight-lipped Sam merely watched him go through the performance without uttering a sound. He did, thankfully, have the good grace not to try and pester Castiel through their net connection.

There were keys that opened the door to the space between universes where the Cliabhán existed. Only one person other than Crëwr knew where those keys had been hidden. Contacting one of the other two beings that existed before the creation of the Host was a tricky matter. The being known as Gon Creann had a reputation for being cantankerous. Castiel could only go by hearsay as to whether that was true or not. He’d never had the good fortune, or was it misfortune, to meet them. Whichever, it was now time that a nervous Castiel used this knowledge.

Despite clearly being unconvinced by Castiel’s cover-up, both Sam and Dean carried on walking. They engaged each other in mindless chit-chat, leaving Castiel to whatever it was he was up to. As he trudged along beside Dean and Sam, Castiel tentatively reached out to Gon Creann through the D’llhan channel, a little-known frequency on Host radio. Gabriel had let him into the secret before they ever set foot on Wēalhaz. Finally, his brother’s action made sense. One more act of assistance from Gabriel even from beyond the grave.

“It’s you, Castiel? The one that the humans dubbed the Immortal? I had considered many times who my brother had picked for this mantle. You, I had not expected. The Immortal? Utterly ridiculous name. However, exceptionally long-lived celestial entity is too much of a mouthful to be the catchy hook you need in a prophecy. I, Gon Creann, am the only truly immortal being. One day I will come to collect you, like the rest of your brethren, and your father.”

“You will collect the creator of all?” Castiel parroted back, eyes wide open in shock at the news.

“Indeed, and his sister, the goddess Maaxan. You wish to know the locations of the keys.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I do. Yes. It is the only way I can see of stopping the destruction of Wēalhaz.”

“It won’t hold them forever you know? Michael, Lucifer, Raphael. They will find a way out – or another will rise and find a way to restore them to your plane of existence. How long it will be before that happens, I cannot tell you. Only that at some point before the end of all things in all universes they will make good their escape.”

Deference, not irritation. Respect the powerful being who is allowing you an audience. What could happen in centuries or millennia was not of import. How to free the planet from his brothers' clutches now was at the top of the ‘To Do’ list. If Castiel was to play out the role of the Immortal as set out in the Book of Cerridwenion, the Doethineda and Books of the Fàidhe opening the 'Space Between the Stars and the Worlds' was his responsibility. To stand a chance of doing that he had to get the locations of the keys from Gon Creann.

“That will be an unfortunate day. A bridge that I, or whoever Crëwr has burdened with that responsibility will deal with it then.”

Castiel’s neural sensors flooded with surprise from Gon Creann.

“Pragmatism. Good. You do have one or two brethren dotted across the galaxies who will flock to your cause, I presume?”

Castiel hesitated. He’d known that the keys were ‘out there’ somewhere. Mentally he waved a hand across the sky, indicating ‘offworld’. Stupidly, he had assumed that they would be metaphorical keys without a physical location.

“Err…possibly…um…yes?”

“Castiel, you are overthinking. No-one is going to have to take shuttles offworld. No-one will need to ditch their human body and regain their original form to evaporate themselves to far-flung parts of the known and unknown creation.”

He’d never considered himself stupid, but that was how he feared he was coming across to Gon Creann. “Oh, ok,” was all he could muster. He could see the eye-roll and hear the sigh before Gon Creann spoke again.

“If appropriately packaged with extensive security, it will be possible for three of the keys to be transferred to you through the human net. To do it this way will arouse less suspicion than to use any form of Host translocation.”

“You said three of the keys. What about the fourth?”

“Ah, well spotted. I did indeed only mention three keys. I can provide you with the locations of those keys once you have informed me who will be collecting them for you. As for the fourth. I am not aware of its whereabouts. Crēwr never furnished me with that information and I never went looking.”

Castiel was about to protest that it would have been better if he’d known that going into the conversation. He didn’t get the chance.

“Knowing the Cruthadair, there will be clues to that final key in the prophecies. I suggest you get back to studying them closely, Castiel. It would be a shame not to fulfil one of those crazy stories because you weren’t reading the words through the correct filter. I’ll leave my comms open for the names of your trusted colleagues. I will give them, and only them, the locations of the first three keys.”

Gon Creann ended the conversation there, leaving Castiel floundering. Reality battered its way back into Castiel’s consciousness. Embarrassingly he was lagging behind Sam and Dean, stock still out in the open. He broke into a jog to catch up before they noticed.

**************************************************************************************************

Safehouse was a loose usage of the term. The cottage in front of them looked almost as run-down as the places they’d used in the desert. Sam used his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. If he squinted hard, he could make out that at least all the windows on the front of the place were intact, even though the door appeared to be no more than a beaded curtain.

“Yes, before you ask, Samantha – this is the correct place.”

Sam noticed, however, that Dean had his weapon ready to fire and his squint was more likely to be related to zeroing in on any approaching target.

“Don’t stand about out there like woolly-headed mutton. Get yourselves out of visual range. The Archangels are bound to do another sweep soon enough…unless of course, you were planning on coming all this way to fail at the final hurdle.”

The voice came from inside the cabin. Cautiously, Sam walked the rest of the driveway. He hesitated at the door, looking back over his shoulder.

Dean hadn’t moved a muscle. His weapon trained on the door.

Castiel was lurking behind Dean. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot scuffing small patterns in the dirt, hands stuffed into the pocket of his trench coat as if rummaging around in them for something. Sam could have a good guess at what.

Sam shrugged then reached out to pull the curtain aside. He did a double-take.

“You in or out, boy? Either way don’t matter one iota to me, just close the damned curtain. You’re letting the sunlight in.”

Sam stepped fully into what could only be described as nerd heaven. The whole room was banked with monitors, swipe decks, a few old hardwired desktops with keyboards, a small generator hummed loudly in the corner of the room. One chair. Only one chair in the room and its occupant was a middle-aged man in tattered combats and a stained sleeveless t-shirt which once had obviously had a logo or piece of art printed on it. Whatever it was had faded and been almost entirely obliterated by the stains. 

“Never seen a remote monitoring station for the offworld news and weather?”

“Bullshit!” The word was out of Sam’s mouth before his brain re-engaged.

“Take a second to peruse the records relating to these coordinates. Tell me what you find.” The guy, who had yet to introduce himself, gestured for Sam to avail himself of any of the hardware to make that check.

Unwilling to reveal his capability, Sam hovered over the nearest deck. Careful to mask his tracks, Sam ran every conceivable option to trace what the official line was on the cabin.

“Alright, that’s what the authorities both sides of the border have on you.” Sam allowed himself a smug grin at the slight flicker of surprise that he’d run the background data so quickly and thoroughly. “I still call bullshit, though. This isn’t really a part of Final Quantum Natural Resources and Media, is it?”

“Oh, you’re wrong there. Officially this five square miles belong to a subsidiary of that company.” A sly grin spread over his face. “You bother checking out the majority shareholders of that corporation while you were messing around on the net?”

Dean and Castiel joined them in the cabin, the beads of the curtain clacking behind them.

“Ah, so there we have it!” their host exclaimed. “The Immortal and the Righteous Man finally deigned to join the Boy King in my humble abode. Settle in gentlemen – whatever there is you’re welcome to. Only one rule here – you don’t disturb my stuff. If you do, you put it back exactly – EXACTLY – as you found it. Understand.”

All three nodded like scolded schoolchildren.

“Woah – there’s some seriously low-tech kit in here. Bet even I could operate most of it. If I can use anything, then where’s the nearest port I can use to download video…”

Sam stopped his trawl through Final Quantum’s maze of holding companies to snigger at the way the old guy was looking at Dean.

Castiel stepped in on Dean’s behalf. “Not that kind of footage, I can assure you…although I must admit that on occasion Dean has been known to indulge some of his baser instincts online – but as far as I’m aware he’s never actually downloaded any of …”

Dean punched Cas in the shoulder – hard.

“So not the time or place, Cas. Not when…err…” Dean nodded at the guy.

“Frank.”

“Right, thanks. Not when Frank has opened his…”

“Careful. I can just as easily contact one of Hester’s agencies as my employer’s.”

Dean snarled at him but backed down.

“Try this one. I’ll even get you a crate to perch on, Dean.”

Thankful once again to the deity that he hadn’t believed in since he was a child. Sam found what he’d been looking for. “Charlie! You work for Charlie!”

“Amongst others – go back and check the records again, Sam. Castiel, stop hovering like an overprotective mother hen. Join me in the kitchen we’ll make tea…”

“Coffee?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Yes, tea and coffee, while the boys work. Oh, and don’t worry I’ll make sure that I don’t use the public water systems for anything.”

Knowing that now he was wound up, Dean would be frustrated if the tech didn’t work instantly, Sam helped Dean to download the video footage while he ran the second search in his head. If Frank knew this much about them and was one of Charlie’s, it was probably ok to use his own ability rather than one of Frank’s decks.

“We’ll set up a new account that we both have access to…run a few hellhounds and perhaps some of Cas’s kill dragon programs around it…” Sam’s fingers flew over the roll-out keyboard. “Then we’ll download the footage from the O-E lab and…” Sam and Dean watched as the footage appeared in front of them. It was a little shaky from Dean’s gait but clear enough to get a decent view of what was on the tablets, the holo-monitors, and the odd scraps of paper lying on the desks. “…no…motherfucker!”

Sam buried his face in his hands. He drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

He’d suspected it at the time. The way that there were so many different experiments going on. Abaddon had been defensive despite the orders from higher up to do a full show and tell. Orcain-Eva either weren’t as far along the path of creating a vaccine or a drug to combat the biotoxin as the reports he’d read on the way to the Grohurst River Maximum Security Asylum had indicated. Or the real horror story - the toxin mutated frequently either because that was how it was created, or it had evolved to do so. Whichever story was the case, being the “Boy King” the intellectual genius who already understood drug creation and production from established recipes, didn’t mean he knew how to tackle something like this.

The news didn’t get any better. Hidden away from all but the most inquisitive of prying eyes was a document detailing the ultimate holding company of one of the firms with a significant share in Quantum – the Coven. Specifically – Rowena.

“We’re doomed. Doesn’t matter which Crëwrway we turn, there’s the fucking Coven!”

“Could say the same about Lorien and Charlie’s unhealthy AND unexplained interest in us,” Dean suggested.

But Sam liked Charlie. Charlie was good people in a way that he couldn’t vouch for Rowena being good people. No matter how much she’d done for them, Sam couldn’t shake the niggling distrust at the back of his mind. His instincts were never wrong on stuff like this. What he couldn’t yet put together a credible hypothesis on was why, given the pile of evidence that Rowena was on their side.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which:  
> \- Team Free Will wait for their ride to Moondor  
> \- Someone meets a sticky end

The lake wasn’t a poetic shimmering mirror. Once upon a time, Sam liked to think it might have been. The surface was dark and murky, where once fish and other creatures lived Sam expected that there would be nothing but garbage and pollutants. The less inhabited parts of the True North were some of the last vestiges of Wēalhaz to be destroyed and, he guessed, some of the last to be cleaned up. There was a forest behind them, large trees hundreds of years old, most were only partial trunks, but some were flourishing and hogging the last of whatever nutrients were in the soil.

Dean was perched on a log, field stripping his arm. Dean had nothing to clean the parts except the clothes on his back. That was hardly the point. The weapon was useless. His cybernetic arm had some use as a heavy tool or weapon for hitting or gripping. But all the ammunition and all the manna was gone.

Sam opened his mouth in a reflex to make a sarcastic comment. He snapped it shut before he could utter a word. Now was not the time for such brotherly banter. Most likely, Dean would take it the wrong way, and Cas would end up refereeing yet another Winchester fight. If it kept Dean from stressing about being stranded here then, so much the better.

Castiel was nowhere in sight. As soon as they had reached the co-ordinates that Charlie had given Sam, Castiel had kept walking. He’d made it clear that ‘do not disturb’ was a sign for everyone to leave him alone, Sam included. The angel going missing concerned Sam. The three of them had to make it Charlie’s base on Moondoor, or none of them made it. ‘All for one and one for all!’ So what if it was a little cheesy? The sentiment was the truth for Sam now that he was on-board with the prophetic destiny piece. After all, they had already done so much of what had been foretold that it was hard to deny. Even Dean had grudgingly accepted that there might be something to it. Especially, as his plan had been the one to finally get the Archangels of the Northeast and the Midwest into The Cliabhán Then he had been the one to capture Raphael. Sam regretted his intervention there in joining sides with Castiel against Dean and finally persuading his brother that the deal to hand the Archangel over to the Coven had to be honoured.

*************************************************************************************************

What was his new record? Two minutes dead? This time speed was not Dean’s friend. He slowed down field stripping his arm, turning each piece over in his flesh hand and laying it reverently on his jacket on the log beside him. The longer it took, the more that he concentrated on something technical, the less time and mental capacity he had to freak out about the impending flight. Oddly the offworld trip wasn’t what had him riled up. He couldn’t say that he was looking forward to that. If he had understood Sam’s communications with the Queen of Moons, semi-stasis pods would be available for them if they wanted. Dean wanted. No, the part of the trip that Dean was…ok…let’s call a spade a spade…Dean was terrified of was the trip in a small waterplane to an island an hour and a half off the coast of the True North. Apparently, there was a private offworld transit station known only to a few super-rich executives. If Charlie was one of those who knew, then Dean prayed that meant all of those who did weren’t fans of the Host. Of course, all of this was presupposing that he made it across the ocean to the island. Dean doubted it was possible in a tiny aircraft that would be rammed with the three of them and the pilot.

Sam was pacing. Dean almost threw something at him to get him to stop. Sam’s perpetual motion was doing nothing to calm his nerves.

“Any reason you’re wearing a track in the dirt and giving away that we were here?”

“No-one’s going to know it was us. Besides, I’m not creating a track…I’m…”

Dean watched as Sam looked down at his gigantic feet.

“Uh, ok…you may have a point. Helps me think. Can’t spend much time online in case…you know. Trying to work things out in my head – not even any old school paper or a working tablet. Meg suggested that I leave the Orcain-Eva one behind, despite Rowena assuring me that the one she gave us wasn’t logged as company property.”

Dean had to side with Meg on that one. He’d not admit it to anyone, but he kind of missed the snarky, not quite Coven merc.

“Do you have to ‘work things out’ now? Why not enjoy the scenery. Might be our last time on the planet for a long time – maybe forever.”

“Like you, you mean?”

“I am taking things in…just…”

“I know,” Sam walked over and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I get it. Trying not to think about the next stage of the trip.”

Sam wandered off again, giving Dean some space.

“Any idea when Cas will get back? Did he say anything to you?”

Dean shook his head. He’d figured that Cas would have told Sam something, what with their ability to communicate through the ether. Not that he was jealous at all – no, he most definitely wasn’t jealous that his brother could speak to Cas and Dean not have a scooby what either of them said. Sucked even bigger balls that there was no chance of…um…catching onto it by…other means either. Well, not the only other means that Dean had at his disposal given his limited net running talents and zero ability to connect without a port.

“You ever wonder if somehow this will end up going badly wrong? I don’t mean for us personally…we all know the chances of that are high…what I’m meaning is for the planet? For Wēalhaz?”

Sam pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose as he thought about his answer.

“Not before now, no. But…if we get rid of the Host…then that leaves things wide open for…”

“The Coven to jump in and take over. I’m sure Rowena and her pals have been dying to get global control handed to them on a platter.”

“Why now?”

Indeed, why now. If the records were correct, and what Crowley, Meg and Rowena had said was true, then the Coven had lived on the planet long enough to have made a takeover bid way before the Host rocked up. Except…no, Dean couldn’t quite make two and two add up to four yet. But give him time, and he’d piece it together.

“Dammit! I’m going to look for Cas. Make sure he hasn’t gotten himself lost.”

“Be back here when the plane lands in half an hour, ok!”

***********************************************************************

“Father, I know you’re not listening. Call me cracked in the chassis, or whatever other insults you choose, however speaking to you as if you were still there, helps me. It soothes something within me. I process better. Can it really have been your will that angel turned against angel? You knew that your children would end up fighting one another! You told the prophets to that the Immortal would be of the Corca Oidce. You knew that I’d end up with so much blood on my hands. I can’t wash off what’s there already and there’s so much more to come, I fear. Even once I have opened The Cliabhán and Dean unites the human resistance, getting Michael and Lucifer into the cage will only be the first step. The archives tell me that there will be others to claim the 3 vacated crowns. What…what kind of father are you? You create worlds only to run away and hide while they and all your creations are destroyed. I…I…think…I…no…I know I can no longer call you my father – your are a cruel god.”

Castiel leaned forward, seated on the tree-stump, his hands folded in his lap. He sat in silence for a minute. The lack of ambient noise from woodland creatures irked him. He had thought that if he came further into the woods for his self-pity session there would at least be some insects. Once more he missed his apiary with its gentle background hum. Why, after so many years of Host assistance had the damage done to the environment not been reversed here? Charlie had not randomly chosen the co-ordinates for their pick-up. 

Castiel sprang to his feet. 

“Sam! Sam! Sam!” 

As he ran, Castiel removed his ‘do not disturb’ and set his defences to allow any message from Sam to slip through unchallenged. Risky, but necessary.

“Where’s the fire, Dude?”

“Dean,” he didn’t have time for twenty questions with older Winchester. Castiel ran straight past Dean only to find his progress hampered when Dean snagged the flapping tail of his trench-coat. “Where’s Sam,” he asked debating whether to tear his beloved coat, find a way to wriggle out of it or stop to deal with Dean. “No time to talk. I need to talk to Sam, now. Sam!”

Dean didn’t relinquish his hold on the coat.

Thankfully, an Hirvi avatar pushed its way through to the forefront of his consciousness. 

“Cas? Why all the ruckus? The plane will be here in…”

“Yes. Yes. I’m aware. Take a sample of the water…and the soil…maybe…um…” Castiel glowered at Dean and gestured for him to drop hold. “get those samples and perhaps…er…any flora that stand out to you.”

Castiel paused, waiting for the confirmation that Sam heard his instructions. Before Sam could reply, he had another thought. “Actually, maybe you do the water – get Dean to pick up the soil and plants – with his cybernetics…in case.”

“In case of what?” Sam said out loud striding towards Castiel and Dean.

Dean finally released him.

Castiel, his feathers ruffled, wiggled around in the coat until he felt at ease in it again.

“Toxins. Pollution. All manner of other harmful substances.”

“Uh-huh! So, it’s ok if my arm gets fracked!”

“It’s easily replaceable.”

Dean huffed and studied his arm, flexing it from the elbow and making the weapon pop up. Clearly not impressed with Castiel’s explanation.

“Thanks for the sentiment, Cas. But why am I ok to collect water? Surely the same harmful things could be lurking there too?”

Castiel sucked in a breath, Crēwr give him strength! “It takes more dexterity to collect the other samples, with greater potential for exposure. Collecting water is simply a matter of dipping in the lip of the flask and keeping your hands well away from the surface of the water.

“Oh, right…yeah.”

Sam shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket.

It fascinated Castiel that the two brothers had similar reactions to situations, irrespective of how differently they expressed them. He waited for Sam to ask the inevitable follow-up question.

“Why do I need them? From here I mean? It’s not as if there’s anything…” Sam trailed off as his face lit up.

“Indeed.”

“Anyone gonna share with the dunce?”

Dean was no dunce. Castiel was growing impatient to find ways of proving that fact to him. Distinctly personal ways not appropriate for three men on the run and tagged across the net as public enemies numbers 1,2 and 3.

Saved by the bell! More precisely the sound of an old piston engine approaching. 

All three ducked for cover. Realistically the chances of the oncoming vehicle being anything other than Charlie’s promised transport were low. The Host would never send anything so antiquated on a manhunt. When the source of the engine came into view, it was indeed an old aircraft, but not one designed for water landings. The markings on the side were for a cargo company. Not Charlie, then. The plane circled the lake twice, then headed north. As it reached the far end of the lake’s shore for the second time, one of the plane’s occupants threw out a package. It plummeted down to the ground, missing its target and landing in the shallow water at the edge of the lake.

Dean insisted that he be the one to retrieve and open it because, “My chrome arm is expendable, so I’m guessing the rest of me is too – compared to Sam’s genius.”

Sam saved Castiel the trouble of trying to dissuade Dean, by beating his brother to the package. Sam hooked it out of the water and gently kicked it up the shoreline until they could examine it from the cover of the trees.

“Orcain-Eva?”

“Meg!”

Castiel grinned. Of course, it was a parting gift from their friend. He had known that she would never agree to come with them to Moondor. It was not in any of the prophecies. 

Dean snatched the box and tore it open. Three envelopes fluttered out, one addressed to each of them. Nestled among a mass of packing chips were a small figurine of a unicorn, a pair of medstim smartgoggles, and a pint of real bourbon. 

Sam picked up the envelopes. He handed one to Dean and one to Castiel. 

Castiel leaned against the nearest tree, to read what Meg had written:

_“Make the rest of the propehcy happen, Clarence! I’d like to have been around to see it, but well I guess you know how the Coven likes to tie up loose ends. I’d only have been a liability to you. On any other planet at any other time, maybe you and I could have been more, but I know who you have your eye on. You were my unicorn, you know. Keep the little pottery bastard as a very unlike me piece of sentimentality. Give Dean the booze. The goggles are for Sam to help with his headaches – we both know he overdoes the flying solo thing._

_TEAM FREE WILL – the Saviours of Wēalhaz! I believe in you._

_Meg.”_

Ten minutes later, which Castiel spent staring at the letter and the unicorn figurine, the aircraft Charlie had sent to take them to the shuttle terminal arrived.

***************************************************************************************************

Crowley had a skip in his step, tossing his passcard in the air and catching it again. He was free to ply his trade once more without worrying about running around ‘saving the world’. Moose, Squirrel, and the foolish angel were out of his hair, preferably for good. His mother had rescinded her AI status, declaring that after the exhilarating events, she couldn’t possibly return to that state quite yet. Rowena had taken a shuttle back to Eparch to give her old hunting grounds another whirl. Whatever floated her boat, so long as she left him alone. Crowley’s one regret in the fiasco was that he had lost the services of a damn fine mercenary. He would miss Meg. Not her surly attitude, but her ability to anticipate his needs and deliver results. If one wanted to be King then a certain moral flexibility was required which didn’t allow for sentimentality. Meg had become too attached to…what was it that Dean had insisted on calling them? Yes, Crowley chuckled recalling the absurdly childish name. Unfortunately for her, Meg had started to see herself as answering to Team Free Will and not him. That would never do. Crowley had made that little problem disappear permanently.

Crowley stopped to take in a deep breath outside the Keelams executive district apartment block. It was one of those overcast days where the clouds hung so low that they enveloped the top of the building. His choice not to live in the penthouse instead converting one of the lower floors for his own suite confused most people until they visited him on a low cloud day. The views from the city out to the mountains would be obscured on the uppermost floors – a fact for which the architect and structural engineer had been dealt with years ago. Crowley was looking forward to an evening kicking back with a bottle of Glencraig and the views to the moody looking mountains. Tomorrow he would pick up the work he was doing for Roman Valente and Associates again. Dick had played his part in the charade in An Spiorat perfectly leaving Crowley in his debt. Crowley hated being indebted to anyone. Compared to the hell he’d been through for Rowena though – clearing that liability would be a joy.

“Evening Mr Crowley, Sir.” The replicant Doorman gave a small bow as he opened the door for Crowley. “Good to have you back.”

“No place like home, eh?” Crowley replied striding through the door without looking at the doorman.

It was only when he got to the private elevator, the only one in the building that stopped at his floor, that it struck him that he’d never seen the replicant before. He shrugged it off. Not like replicants lasted forever stood out there in all weathers. Each new one was programmed with the same memories and the protocols Crowley stipulated for guarding his home. The replicant that had been outside when he left for the Combined Territories had probably malfunctioned. He expected that he’d find an invoice from Iyox Abutron for the removal of the old and supply of the new buried in the mass of documents awaiting his sign off.

Whizzing up through the floors in the elevator, he whistled one of the ancient tunes that Rowena had sung to him centuries ago when he was growing up in Eparch. She claimed it was a traditional Coven song of celebration for the dead. A young Fergus MacLeod had questioned why his mother always sang such a depressing song to a child. His mother’s logic never made any sense. Rowena maintained that celebrating the honourable dead was a joyful thing – remembering the good deeds they had done in service to their people. His younger self thought remembering the dead could never be a joyous occasion. Now he’d lived and seen both the good, the bad, and the non-descript pass through the Veil he could see how she might be right. Not that he’d admit that to her – ever.

Crowley stepped out of the elevator. Something wasn’t right. Ah yes, there was a different smell in the air, a sickly cloyingly sweet floral scent. He’d tell housekeeping not to use Gardenia in the lobby arrangement again.

Out of the blue, Crowley felt unsteady on his feet. He staggered the five paces to his front door. His hand was shaking so badly as he lifted it to the sensor, that he fleetingly wondered if it would register his biometrics. He grabbed hold of his wrist with the other hand to steady it a bit. The instant his palm touched the sensor a jolt of energy shot through his body and Crowley slumped to the floor.

When his lifeless body was found later that night, there was a jagged incision at the base of his skull and evidence that a stack had been wrenched from the corpse. A small holographic business card covered in occult symbols was found peeking out of his tightly clenched fist.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Free Will get used to Moondor and up the ante on saving the world - sort of!

“I’ve put the whole of this lab at your disposal. Should be well-enough equipped for you. The only…uh…stipulation is…” Charlie’s eyes bored a hole in Sam’s face. Her usually twinkling eyes now hard as steel.

Sam nodded, running his hand over the workbench. “I get it. No helping myself to the supplies for personal use.”

“I know it’s a shitty thing to bring it up, but I have a reputation to maintain. Hacking accounts, printing scandalous news stories, digging up the skeletons people want buried are all a-ok for Lorien. It’s what I built the business on…well that and hosting the most stupendous online, multiplayer, multi-world, mash-up games ever in the history of Wēalhaz.”

Sam rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, “I won’t abuse your trust. I’m grateful for the recipe to reduce mine and Cas’s withdrawals. Although, I’m not so sure it works as well when what’s inhabiting the body isn’t human. It helped me. I don’t need it now anyway. Not with the upgrade Cas gave me and all the computing power you’ve already put at my disposal.”

“Great. I’d better get back to it – you know being the Queen and ruling my empire so magnanimously that my subjects adore me is no mean feat. Catch you later, Sasquatch.”

As the door hissed shut behind Charlie, Sam ran his eyes over the fully equipped laboratory. According to prophecy, this was where he was to concoct the antidote to the ever-changing toxin that the Host was using to slowly gain absolute control over the planet and its inhabitants.

Cas had counselled that he take a few more days to adjust to the offworld habitat. One or two additional days to the rule of his brethren wouldn’t make that much difference. Logically, Cas was right. Morally, Sam thought that the Host’s compass was skewed. People were being poisoned. Imperceptibly, drop by drop of infected water that they used to drink or bathe. Sam was convinced that the community filtration systems were now so finely tuned that they never screened out the Host’s toxin. Sam suspected that even the fancy filtration systems installed in individual living units on the high-level executive estates were manufactured, or subsequently serviced, to let the Corca Oidce toxin slide through.

The difference between samples he’d taken from their stop outside Sasvik and those Cas had badgered him to take from the lake in the True North were disturbing. The so-called ‘clean’ sample, although polluted would act as a baseline for Sam’s work. The water on Moondor wasn’t as useful. It was great as a standard for what fresh water should be. It was a useful example of water that required no messing around to be potable. However, the base constitution of the water up here was different.

Sam explored his new home. He referred to it as home, because like it or not – if there was space in a cupboard somewhere, he’d shove a cot in there and sleep in the lab.

There was one essential he needed before he got to work though. Sam located his brother as he began cataloguing the machinery and marking up what he recognised and what he didn’t. He’d send the list to the head of Charlie’s science team to come and explain it to him.

“Dean? Wanna come see my new toys? Bring coffee and food.” Sam pushed the message through the open system to Dean.

Ten minutes later, Dean barged through the door arms full of junk food and a tray of four coffees in his hands.

“Let me guess,” he said as he carefully placed the tray on the nearest flat surface and unceremoniously scattered the bags of food wherever they fell. “You’re setting up camp in here and want a food and drink delivery service? No dice, Sammy.”

Sam swung his legs up on his desk crossing them at the ankle and leaned back in his chair. “Uh-huh. What? You saying that you’re not delivering food to me in here – because the evidence is you are!” Sam smirked at his brother. “Or you’re pulling the big, bad, overprotective brother card in general?”

“Both.”

Sam huffed. This! This was why the two of them together long-term never worked well. At least on Moondor, they’d have more space than they’d ever had growing up in the Combined Territories.

“If you don’t want to ferry food around, I’m sure Cas or Charlie will oblige.”

Sam thought the most likely outcome was Charlie wouldn’t agree either and would insist on dragging his ass out of the lab for ‘recreation’. Cas then. Cas would understand.

Distracting Dean with a piece of machinery that had a robotic arm and looked in need of a little TLC, Sam sent his request through to Cas. Although it was sort of a deceitful thing to do, Sam asked Cas to check that Dean wasn’t with him in the lab before answering his request for a chat.

Sam’s plan didn’t work. 72 hours later, he admitted defeat. Sam wasn’t vanquished to the point that he would never accomplish the task. No, that he was committed to. What Sam couldn’t do was live and work in the lab around the clock only emerging for bathroom breaks and sonic showers. It wasn’t going to do him any good to keep trying to solve the problem by himself. He’d barely scratched the surface of research on how to counter the effects of an insidious bio-toxin. Sam wasn’t even in the same league as the additional level of knowledge that he needed for one that evolved and adapted.

“We could always find a way in through the backdoor to what else is going on at O-E,” Charlie suggested around a mouthful of re-hydrated pizza the evening after an exhausted Sam had admitted his limitations.

Sam wouldn’t deny he’d thought of that himself.

“I believe it would be better for Wēalhaz if Sam refrained from joining up with the Coven at this stage.”

At this stage? Sam let the words slide. Cas had an odd turn of phrase at the best of times. Surely, he couldn’t be hinting that they’d team up with Orcain-Eva again?

“I wasn’t suggesting leaping into bed with them,” Charlie blustered. “Merely doing a peer review of their findings.”

“That would still be joining up with them, would it not?”

“Only if we let them in on where Sam finds out they’re wrong.”

Ah, the infamous Cas eyebrow raise.

Sam stepped in to stop things before they escalated.

“My research, my call. Thanks for the offer. I’m going to do this with what I’ve gleaned so far from them. It’s been useful, but…”

Sam’s brain finally caught up with the niggle about what went on at Grohurst. At least, what he had come to believe went on at Grohurst Asylum. If he had help during the practical stage of development, it would give him more time to hunt around and find some evidence to substantiate his hunch.

“…I’d rather continue on with the hunt for the antidote under my own steam. Although, if you’ve got anyone on Moondor that could help me out with both the research and the development I’d be grateful Charlie.”

***************************************************************************************************

Was Moondor the equivalent of heaven? Dean had often pondered that in the three months since their arrival. Could he convince Sam and Cas to stay there permanently? They hadn’t spoken about what happened after they succeeded. Too close to tempting fate to have that conversation. Dean spent as much time as he could in the surprisingly well-equipped training facility at Charlie’s Moondor lakeside encampment of Camp Chitaqua. The camp was far enough away from corporate headquarters and the executive living accommodations for Dean to be more comfortable hanging out there. It didn’t hurt that it offered him an unending amount of all of his vices – booze, drool-inducing junk food, sex, and weapons. All of which provided much-needed downtime. Sure, he’d been a squad leader in Michael’s elite, but that was NCO level stuff. Now he was like what…the Commander in Chief? No, wait. That role was the dorky Host’s. Dean was maybe the General or Lieutenant General? Whatever, the details for orchestrating the bands of civilians rising up across the planet into a unified force against the Host was his job. He enjoyed it, the strategical and tactical planning really played to his strengths, but boy was it draining.

Dean left the details of the gruesome civil war amongst the Host to Cas. From what little he’d gathered, there were almost as many factions as there were angels of senior rank and they showed little compunction about killing one another. At first, he’d thought it was the borrowed meatsuits that they were destroying. The harrowed look on Cas’s face whenever another report turned up from Hannah told Dean otherwise.

It would be easier if…well…it wasn’t possible, was it?

Dean found the nearest port and jacked in. Travelling as a kid and then being enlisted into Michael’s army as cannon fodder meant Dean didn’t have much of an education. He’d never needed more than his can-do attitude and bone-headedness to get him through. The study of social and political studies had never been on his radar, until now.

“Wow!” Dean whistled through his teeth as he pulled up ancient news reports from all over Wēalhaz. “Never thought of it like that. Makes senses, though. Hey, Sam!” He pushed through the net at his brother’s avatar. “You know much about the global history of political revolutions – not the highlight reel, but the details?”

“Not really. Maybe Cas could help.”

No, Cas couldn’t help. Yes, he’d been on the planet longer than either of them, and with access to Host resources as well as whatever was on the public net. However, Dean wanted someone he could ask questions of without the robotic, unemotional logic of the Host. He needed another human.

“Yo, Red!” Charlie was bound to know, running a media company and all. Dean berated himself for not having thought that Charlie’s skill and knowledge could be useful for more than covering up their tracks or having a squeeing match with Sam over some nerdy piece of tech.

“Winchester! About to give my rally the troops speech to get the corporation up and running again speech – real motivational leadership stuff from the Queen of Moons.”

Dean winced. His bad, he tended to forget that Charlie was a corporate bigwig when she hung out with them like she was nothing special. “Send you a note on what I could do with some help on? You can look at it after?”

Charlie sent him back a smiley face, which Dean guessed meant - yes.

To: the Queen

What do you know about historical pre-apocalypse, pre-Host coups d’état? How did they orchestrate it? Did they ever not totally fuck the whole thing up afterwards making it same old shit, new face in charge? There has to be at least one useful example somewhere.

Dean settled in for more reading of his own. He was taking honest to goodness notes about what he understood had happened. Then he was reflecting on what he'd read against what he’d learned from his time in the military. How could they do it differently? Most rebellions looked as though they’d been started by power-hungry generals in states that had been used to despotic leaders. The shoe sort of fitted – except Dean had no intention whatsoever of taking power. Now he was here, he had no wish to go back to Wēalhaz – what was there for him?

He’d wait for Charlie’s input, or whoever she tasked with helping him out, before making his next move. However, there was only one person he knew who could possibly help co-ordinate what he was thinking. A man who'd lived the cushy corporate life as a kid. Had lived among street gangs as a teen. Then ended up alongside Dean in the military. Dean Winchester and Cole Trenton had hated each other on sight – mostly on principle. Their route into Michael’s ‘best of the best’ in the Northeast shared a similar path. If there was anyone who had risen from the ranks who would have been earmarked to lead the Praell, then it was Cole and Dean. Michael and the other Host in his inner sanctum, like Zachariah, spared no expense in adding fuel to the flames of their rivalry. It backfired as such meddling generally does when the two men realised that they were being played and came to…well, no not friendship…more an accord.

Cole played soldier-boy politely for Michael because there was no viable alternative. The idea of being reduced to hunting bond breakers and runaways had been abhorrent to him. Cole was not quite so laissez faire with his life as Dean. The other thing Cole had that Dean hadn’t bothered with was - a network. If that network stretched across country and not just territory borders, Dean could establish a human way into other countries. Cas claimed to have one or two angels on his side that were alive, but to create the groundswell of co-ordinated attacks Dean saw as necessary? Angels couldn’t lead the resistance. If Dean were in the shoes of a rebel leader in the Driquaron States, he’d not rally to the side of one of the Host claiming to be on the human’s side against whichever Host ruled that nation. He wouldn’t believe that the angel was sincere.

Impatient, Dean searched for all Cole’s known contact details. Hanging around with his brother again must have been rubbing off on him. Dean spotted a weakness in the security systems of an unofficial Imstraer contacts site on which Cole’s name appeared. Dean slipped in past the ICE. He stopped to wonder if he ought to set a warning program but remembered he didn’t know how to do that in the net. Dean shrugged telling himself he’d be in and out too quickly for any security programs to harm him – given none had triggered at his clumsy approach. Bingo! We have a winner! Cole knew more than legitimate military across the globe. Tucked three links away was evidence that Cole knew plenty of mercs and kept in touch with the odd vigilante. If Dean could hook him in – Cole Trenton had the contacts to make it work.

A tiny spark caught light in Dean’s chest. Hope. An unexpected optimism that if Dean’s sudden revelation was correct. If, by some miracle of the Cruthadair, fostering a genuine connection between the disgruntled human military and the bands of rebels could work. Humans could take back control of the planet and remove every trace of the Host. The Coven could still be a threat, but the way Dean saw it, the prophecies only spoke of one damn enemy of the planet being eliminated through the toil of the Saviours. To rid Wēalhaz of the Coven, when they weren’t outright causing the damage that the Host was, wasn’t his problem to deal with.

It didn’t skip his notice that he was putting faith in prophecies that he never believed in. Not to mention that his own actions were starting to look an awful lot like they were the fulfilment of those stories in the holy books.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything finally comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken a liberty here and posted the final awesome piece of artwork from Amberdreams here. It's of Cas in his apiary. He might no longer be there in his bunker with his bees, but the feel of Cas getting getting lost in his head sitting on the floor is the same. Besides I wanted to save one piece of artwork for nearer the end of the tale!

It all sounded so simple didn’t it when you read that prophecy back at the beginning of this tale? The Immortal, the Boy King, and the Righteous Man would swoop in and save the day. It didn’t exactly lay out that there were mountains to scale, demons to defeat, and strange, untrustworthy bedfellows along the way, did it? Yet that is what’s happened. But through it all, Team Free Will have shown that they are, if not the expected choice, more than up to the challenge of ridding Wēalhaz of the Corca Oidce. The tale of how two humans and one rogue angel defeated the hordes of the Host is coming to its end. There could be many rabbit holes to chase down. Each twist and turn of how Sam researched and began the arduous process of developing the formula for an effective antidote. We could look at every call or message that Dean sent. How many times he yelled ‘son of a bitch’ when he didn’t get what he wanted. We could explore how Castiel came to select and approach Hannah and Gadreel to collect the keys for him. We could view hour after hour of Castiel sitting, this time in the hydroponics bay, smoking weed or taking Blacker Lace while he combed through every prophecy to find that fourth key. But those aren’t the interesting parts of the final leg of this journey, are they? No, what is most intriguing are the very end pieces to those tales

43hours, 17minutes and 31 seconds after Castiel had spoken with Gon Creann, Hannah contacted him. Hannah delivered the first key to Castiel one week to the second after that. It took longer for Gadreel to get back to Castiel, anxious that this might not be the chance he was waiting for to redeem himself. However, Castiel did his best to try to convince Gadreel that, in the eyes of the people of Wēalhaz at least, he would be on the side of those seeking to do good. In the end, it was a conversation with Hannah that persuaded Gadreel that how their brothers and sisters saw them was inconsequential in comparison to the liberation of Wēalhaz. Under 72 hours later, Gadreel delivered keys two and three to Castiel.

There was no sign of the fourth key. Every reference to opening the cage spoke of four keys. Hannah and Gadreel had deciphered the messages from Gon Creann. They had also collected the three keys as promised without there being any further clues regarding the mysterious fourth key. All Castiel knew was that one key was missing, and he was no further forward in understanding the prophecies to figure out what or where it was. Frustrated didn’t even begin to cover how Castiel felt.

He had to do something to convince himself that he was making progress. With three out of the four keys in his possession, Castiel decided to integrate them into his consciousness. The longer he left them hanging around, the greater the danger that he would be discovered. On the day that he carried out the integration, he secreted himself in one of the disused storehouses out at Camp Chitaqua. Castiel took every security measure he could think of, both ancient and modern. He drew the sigils that would physically prevent his brethren from entering the warehouse on the walls. He painted his body with the same symbols and those of the Coven. On the net, he disconnected from every channel of communication he had access to.

Castiel had gleaned from prophecies in the ancient language of the Coven that anyone wishing to create the space between universes would be more successful doing so detached from their mortal form. Castiel surmised that the ties that bound the wetware and hardware of his body to the stack could be enough to be considered tethering him to a mortal plane. Detach from the stack and the essence of his Host form would be free while he was to all intents and purposes still occupying the human body. The easiest way for the total out of body experience, without too many damaging aftereffects, was to get drunk and high at the same time. Neither his usual Marijuana nor the substitute Nephilit Weed would be sufficient. Castiel acquired enough of a substance used by the priests to create day-long immersive trances, a bottle of Absinthe, and a bottle of synthalcohol bourbon for good measure. 

Suitably detached from his surroundings, Castiel carefully unlocked each message. The keys were represented symbolically by a simple ceremonial bronze dagger, a Larch tree, and a polished lapis lazuli. Each key slotted into a space deep within Castiel’s subconscious. Tumblers fell into place, and Castiel felt the physical shift in his true form. The dam that had been welling up inside Castiel through years of doubt and questioning broke. In his mind, his true form was now bathed in a swirling silver-violet light from head to toe.

HE was the fourth key, the one that neither Hannah nor Gadreel could find. Gon Creann had seen this, hadn’t they? That was the cryptic piece that had annoyed Castiel so much, that this timeless being would only give him the location of three out of the four keys.

After all the reading he’d done of Host, Coven, and human texts. The multiple times he’d poured over the books and compared them. The times he’d meditated. Even asked carefully concealed questions of Sam, Dean, and Charlie to unravel the mystery. Not once in all that time had he thought more about the role of the Immortal. Why it was so important that one of the saviours was a Host. To Castiel, it had been nothing more than poetic justice on the part of Crëwr, or a handy way to ensure that one of the saviours knew how to get rid of an Archangel. He had never understood that he would be integral to the actual moment of banishing his brothers from this plane of existence. It had never occurred to Castiel before that, in yet another sick joke, their Father had decreed that only brother could condemn brother to The Cliabhán.

***************************************************************************************************

For a man who’d never commanded more than a company of men before, it turned out that Dean Winchester was adept at rallying people to his cause. He was also surprisingly capable at developing both strategic and tactical campaigns. Dean had a coordinated strike plan to incapacitate every ruling Host on Wēalhaz at the same time. If they wouldn’t go quietly, with a little bit of help from Castiel, the special task forces who would go face to face with them knew exactly how to kill a Host angel.

The prophets of Maaxan never spoke of a book written by a minor prophet. It had been rejected time and again as being the works of a fraudster. The writer’s name was erased from the records kept by the priests and scribes. As far as their orders were concerned the book had been destroyed. No copy of it existed. That was not entirely true. One copy of it did exist. Not on Wēalhaz, Moodnor, Cogahd, or any offworld colony. No match for it could be found in the holy books of the Coven. The one written copy of that prophecy existed on one of the moons of a small seemingly inhospitable planet at the furthest edge of the galaxy from Wēalhaz.

The only living entity to set foot on that moon had been one able to withstand the extreme temperatures and the toxic air. Millenia ago, perhaps not too long after his birth, and before he went against his father’s commands, the Archangel Lucifer had carved out a shelter among the rocks. Buried deep within this cave were souvenirs from the planets he had visited to carry out the Cruthadiar’s commands. Long before the invasion of the Host to help clean up the planet, Lucifer had spent time among the people of Wēalhaz. It was on one such visit, as the old stories were beginning to be written down, that he heard of the Book of Taliesa. It was Lucifer that whispered in the ears of the High Priest of the day to obliterate Taliesa’s words from existence. He oversaw the destruction of every copy personally, except one which he took to his cave of souvenirs. Who knows why? Perhaps, he had hoped that if he removed the prophecy from existence events would not play out that way? Perhaps, Lucifer believed if he studied it enough, he would conceive of the way to prevent himself being captured? What happened when the three remaining Archangels met the Immortal and the Righteous Man in Larinstir, Rhiasoath in the Midwest of the Combined Territories of Kapron was almost exactly blow for blow what Taliesa had prophesied.

“You? You believe that…oh, brothers I apologise. I didn’t believe either of you.” Raphael said staring through Dean to Castiel. “I had heard a rumour, but I didn’t believe that the one they called ‘Steve’ was you. Oh, this is too funny! You know the humans say that Crëwr, the Cruthadair, never makes a mistake. It sure seems like he might have done. He created Castiel, the weird little angel who was awkward and out of place even among his own kind, to be the Immortal? The one they say would end the Corca Oidce.”

“Yes, Raphael,” Michael snapped, “our little brother believes he is the one to save these…what is it Uriel calls them…”

“Mud Monkeys,” Lucifer supplied.

Dean, standing with both arms behind his back, circled his index finger.

Castiel pushed the image of a Griffin, a creature part lion and part eagle, through the net to Cole and Charlie.

Charlie sent the messages through the encoded military and corporate physical security networks.

Dean stepped to the side so that he was directly in front of Raphael.

“How about calling me that to my face, douchebag.”

Castiel stepped forward until he was positioned between Michael and Lucifer.

“Predictable,” Lucifer sneered. “You do know that you can’t kill any of us from that distance.”

Castiel shrugged. “I know that it is written that the Immortal and The Righteous Man will face the Balaur of the Corca Oidce on the Beltaad of Spring in the land of the Larthiar.”

“The way I see it, you sorry sons of bitches qualify for the title of Balaur. And hey…guess what it’s spring in Larthiar. So, as you’re here, Cas is here, and I’m here – I say let’s FIRE THIS PUPPY UP!”

Explosions boomed behind the three Archangels. A ribbon of fire streaked across the dry grass. The line of fire encircled the Host.

In the confusion caused by the rumble of the second round of explosions, Dean fired his weapon into the ground in front of him and Castiel creating a small gully between them and the fire.

As Dean provided protection, Castiel began to mumble an incantation in the ancient language of the Host. His words were inaudible, even to Dean, with the chaos unfolding around them. Castiel began to glow with shimmering light. The silver-violet rays streamed out of his eye sockets.

“DEAN! Down now!”

Dean’s instincts kicked in at Castiel’s command. He dropped to the ground instantly, then began frantically crawling on his belly away from the gully and the ring of fire surrounding the Host.

The instant that he saw Dean dive, Castiel drew two symbols in the air, one with each hand.

In the old movies, trapped villains always stood still accepting their fate. No such thing occurred with Lucifer, Michael, and Raphael. They were huddled together, heads tipped back, hands at chest height facing Dean and Castiel. A light similar but weaker than that emanating from Castiel, flowing out of their mouths.

All three snapped their heads down, staring in amazement at their younger sibling as the ground began shaking, creating a rumble twice as loud as the explosions. The dirt at the edge of the circle of fire started to crumble. It left the tiniest of strips of grass between the rapidly developing sinkhole, and the gulley Dean had created to stop the fire in its tracks. The fire raged, keeping the three Archangels trapped. Before they could do anything else but wonder how their sibling had gained such power, the ground beneath them gave way, and they tumbled down into the abyss. The second Michael’s, Lucifer’s, and Raphael’s borrowed bodies disappeared, the crater closed, and the fire went out. The patch of ground where the most powerful of the Host had stood looked as if nothing had ever happened. No mark or blemish was visible at all.

After peace had descended on the field and the fire had been quenched, sending the three Archangels to The Cliabhán seemed…well, it seemed rather anticlimactic.

Castiel and Dean, in keeping with ALL the prophecies, resolutely refused to stay on Wēalhaz despite the pleas from the leaders of the rebel forces. Until Sam was done with the formula, the prophecy wasn’t completely fulfilled. There was nothing that needed them that couldn’t be done from Moondor. Besides, the prophecies were clear – Team Free Will would liberate the people, not govern the people.

****************************************************************************************************

Sam now had two long-term inhabitants of Moondor to help him. When Charlie gave him the low down on the assistants she’d allocated, Sam was dubious about their credentials. Neither had any experience in creating pharmaceuticals. They were, on the plus side, as members of Charlie’s scientific media team experts in their own fields of hydroponics and environmental geology. At first, Sam had thought Raymond would be as useful as a kayak on a dried-up river bed. However, he won Sam around with his outstanding ability to find the flaw in any argument or the incorrect part of any equations or formulae. Remi had been another revelation. Their knowledge of on and offworld plants was staggering, going far beyond what it was possible to grow in a hydroponics bay. They knew enough of the chemical composition of the plants that, with a scant few seconds of thinking time, they could suggest a plant or combination of plants that might work in Sam’s latest theory.

They created a staggered shift system. Alone time in the lab was for research. The hours when one of the others was in there too was for experimentation. If Sam had thought that simply because the prophets deemed him capable of bringing the antidote into the world, creating his own pharmaceutical recipes from scratch would be easy – he was quickly disavowed of that idea. Even with three heads, progress was slow. Agonisingly slow. The sour attitude hadn’t dissipated when Dean and Cas were insistent that he stay on Moondor working in the lab rather than be part of the assault on the Archangels.

He had tried, unsuccessfully, to return the favour by insisting that Dean could not be a test subject for the antidote. They compromised. Willing bodies to house a stack were in short supply on Moondoor, but as a being whose true form was not corporeal, Castiel could sacrifice his body to testing. If something went wrong, Team Free Will agreed with Charlie that they’d smuggle a body out of one of the stack-houses on Wēalhaz and bring it back to Moondor for Castiel. Once testing on Castiel showed that the formula was promising, then testing on Sam and Dean would take place monitored by Raymond and Remi.

Four months after the start of the research, Sam had the inkling that finally, this was it.

“Cas’s body isn’t showing any signs of damage from the water and your…your reading are…well they’re showing that you’re as stable…uh…as you’ve ever been.”

Dean squinted at his brother.

“Come one, Dean! We all know that the Winchesters are all a bit tweaked in the head – goes with the territory.”

Dean’s face didn’t change. “Yeah, yeah. So long as there’s no expectation of wanting to talk about feeling shit.”

Sam grinned. “Charlie says that there’s this amazing therapist who hides away up on the other side of the planet. All tattoos, curves in the right places and a few extra added enhancements.”

Dean shook his head.

“Sam,” Castiel butted into the brotherly banter, “this is fantastic news. What about your readings?”

“Still processing.”

Dean leaned back against the workbench, his arms folded across his chest, looking unconvinced that this was the remarkable success Sam and Cas thought it was.

“I’m no expert…”

“Me neither, Dean. Although, this does look positive.”

“It’s a bit quick to go celebrating though, don’t you think? We’ve tested on three dudes…and one of those is practically a reanimated corpse. Don’t drugs usually go through major, long-ass testing programs?”

Sam hummed in agreement, flopping down onto the nearest chair, the tablet with the results firmly clutched in one hand.

“There is precedent for medications to be rushed through, especially if it’s for a global problem.”

“Sam is correct, Dean,” Castiel added. “During the great Black Convulsions outbreak two centuries ago, the governments in the Combined Territories, Great North, Erpach, and Appithas all allowed what would normally be considered experimental drugs to be released onto the market.”

“Hold up! Hold up!” Sam exclaimed. “I’m not saying it's ready for release yet. Simply that this is the first formula we’ve developed that could work.”

“Still think we need a broader test sample,” Dean huffed.

The three sat in silent agreement with Dean’s statement. Without polluting Moondor further with the toxin, how would they gather willing test subjects?

“What if…what if,” Sam began tentatively, “we asked Cole to see if any of the rebels would be willing to help out?”

That is exactly what happened. One person from each country already involved made the transit to Moondor to be trained by Sam, Remi, and Raymond. When they went back to Wēalhaz, that person would run a small trial with willing volunteers. The results would then be passed back through a convoluted security protocol channel back to Moondor.

Suffice it to say that it was the umpteenth iteration of that promising formula that was broadcast simultaneously across every channel in every country on Wēalhaz.

***************************************************************************************************

With one global broadcast, Lorien Media Network Corporation's first broadcast after the devasting bombing of their Moondor headquarters turned the whole of Wēalhaz on its head. The footage interrupted whatever scheduled programming there had been. Media companies owned by the Coven quickly followed suit. Castiel’s broadcasts were back on rotation on many channels. This time there was a newly created avatar to replace the ones of Emmanuel and the final real image of Castiel. The originals of both those images had been obliterated from existence across every known global and off-world repository. Charlie promised. The broadcasts were often interspersed with adverts for medication that claimed to be based on the formula Sam had discovered.

It should surprise no-one, not even the most oblivious of people who have followed this tale, that it was a subsidiary of the medical evacuation company, Orcain-Eva, which claimed to have produced the medication. What was perhaps the more surprising facet of this claim was the price tag applied and freely advertised. With Rowena and her fellow Inner Sanctum members’ reputation as money-grabbing bastards, the self-proclaimed know-it-all would think that there would be a hefty charge for the medication. It was a complicated drug to create, one that had to adapt within the human body so that when the chemical structure of the toxin changed, the drug could adapt to combat it. Instead, the advertised price was affordable by almost anyone but the most disenfranchised. Meaning those in the outermost zones of any megacity would be at risk. One or two enterprising people always tried to replicate the drug from Sam’s formula in backstreet chopshops in those zones. The success rates varied. But some hope was better than none.

No-one, not one person on Wēalhaz or it’s offworld colonies, mourned the end of Crowley, MacLeod and Craig, let alone the grisly demise of the company’s senior partner. All the monies from the firm’s accounts and Crowley’s personal accounts were anonymously transferred on the same day that the lawyer was murdered. A skilled hacker located on the far side of Cogahd published on one of the scurrilous online news-sheets that the exact sums of money transferred reappeared a week later spread across the accounts of one unknown Erpach citizen. Rumour had it that the accounts belonged to a registered AI.

As the world of the Host crumbled, people searched. They searched far and wide to find the source of Castiel’s broadcasts. To uncover who had discovered the cure for the effects of the toxin. They wanted to know who had marshalled the troops that rebelled against the Archangels of the Combined Territories of Kapron. Someone had to be behind all of it. One or two people had claimed that the happenings were linked. They had dubbed the three unidentified people as the Saviours of the Planet. But at the time, no-one could find the evidence to prove it – those who maintained their existence were denounced as Neocorticine brain-addled crackpots. To keep things this way, Charlie and her team worked overtime to provide a plethora of confusing signals. Castiel added a touch of Host protection. When Charlie did one of her routine checks, she found a mysterious set of protocols and symbols swirling around that no-one owned up to creating.

Castiel smiled while Charlie raged about breaches of security. He recognised them as some of the oldest and least well-known, but powerful, symbols of the Coven. One last gesture of solidarity to Team Free Will from Rowena. Not that he was dewy-eyed about it. Castiel knew the second he saw the details of Crowley’s death that Rowena had orchestrated it. However, he kept the knowledge to himself. It served no useful purpose to mention it.

Dean did when he flopped down beside Castiel three days later fresh from a session at the training facility at Camp Chitaqua. On his way back, he had noticed a report about an offworld transit ship from Escaria with a secret destination that had met with an unfortunate accident. The authorities had yet to divulge the names of those on-board.

“You see, Cas, what got my attention about it was some passing mention in the next story about the destruction of a couple of data-centres on Cogahd. Apparently, they housed most of the back-ups for AI’s registered in the True North and Escaria. Now, call me crazy, but I reckon the two are linked.”

Castiel cocked his head, a blank look on his face. “I suppose it is possible.”

“Possible? Seriously? Wait until I tell Sam. He’ll get it.”

“Get what, Dean?”

“Crowley’s death, the calling card left with him. Rowena conveniently toddling off to her ‘old hunting grounds’ in human form. That transit left from a transit station that mostly handles cargo and undesirable traffic. Hardly newsworthy stuff is it, a cargo ship disappearing.”

“Uh-huh,” Castiel said careful to sound non-committal. He knew where Dean was going with this…because…reasons. Not reasons he was willing to share with anyone, but regrettably, he had them. Call it loose ends.

“Rowena’s AI would have been in at least one of those two data centres, probably Crowley’s too – I’d bet Charlie’s empire on it.”

“Hey!” Charlie squealed poking her head around the door to the communal lounge area. “What are you betting my blood, sweat, and tears on?”

Castiel watched with fascination, wondering if yet again he had underestimated his Bright Soul.

“I’ve had this itch – not that kind! Call it a hunch. Something about the way that the Coven were willing to pitch in and pull our asses out of the fire didn’t make sense. I’m not stupid, I do my own research. Sources say that the MacLeods may be one of the founding families and still Inner Sanctum by name, but there’s as much warm family feeling between them and the rest of the Coven high-ups as there was between mother and son. Now, with the “low, low price” of the medication, it finally makes sense. The Coven wanted the Host out of the way so they could swoop in and take control – not as overtly as the angel dickwads, but they wanted to be top dog on the planet.”

“Oooh, I see. Yeah, ok. Now I wouldn’t bet my total empire on that. I only got us back on the right footing again after the ‘incident’ – but I would bet a few hundred carbons on that theory!”

Inwardly, Castiel relaxed. He was both right and wrong about Dean. His reasons were safe. If Dean stayed suspicious of the Coven, what skin was it off Castiel’s nose? He’d play along with Dean’s little flight of fantasy.

“Your theory being – that the other members of the Coven bumped off both Crowley and Rowena – including any back-ups of Rowena’s consciousness.”

Dean nodded enthusiastically.

“Hmm, it’s possible.”

“Castiel! It’s more than possible – it’s highly credible…Jules…yeah – get a team doing an in-depth investigative piece on that – and the data centre things too. Let me know what you find before anything goes near any of the broadcast media teams.”

Castiel merely inspected a pulled thread on his pant leg.


	21. Epilogue

He had hoped in his heart of hearts that it wouldn’t have panned out the way it did. That somehow the revolution could have been bloodless. That his brothers would see the error of their ways and either genuinely attempt to undo all the harm they’d done to Wēalhaz, or gracefully step down and leave the people of the planet to rule and find their own way to rebuild and restore. Castiel understood now that those were the foolish pipe dreams of a naïve child. In the same way that the Marrigon had decided that he was the Immortal, Sam was the Boy King, and that his Bright Soul Dean was the Righteous Man, so they had decreed that his three oldest brothers would lead the Corca Oidce until they were destroyed by the Saviours of Wēalhaz.

Cas would forever bear the shame that his naivety and arrogance had cost others their lives. He dearly missed Gabriel and Balthazar. He even felt sorrow at the loss of Meg, Rowena and Crowley. Who was he to judge the motives of another when his good intentions had ended so disastrously not only for him but for those he cared about? Sam had deserved the happiness Eileen could have brought him. How could anyone have failed to notice the way Sam’s gentle eyes lit up when he talked of the woman that he had not plucked up the courage to ask out? But she too had been an innocent casualty of Lucifer’s extreme cruelty.

He was glad never to have to be Emmanuel, Jimmy, or Steve again. Their deaths an easy sacrifice in the struggle. He had come to terms with living the rest of his days without the hum of the Host radio in the background. To all intents and purposes, he was now human. The essence of Castiel was downloaded to the stack in his spinal column and like any other human a single blow to the stack could kill him. Castiel was OK with that.

He was slowly learning through his interactions with those at Camp Chitaqua what it really meant to be human. Well, maybe not entirely human. A more appropriate description was that he would always be a hybrid. Castiel carried his millennia of memories and now many of Rowena’s too. He was amazed at how the skills and knowledge of the Coven allowed him to replicate his ability to heal bodies and calm minds alongside the camp’s medical team. When he gave his mind permission to wander, it often drifted back to that moment in the beginning of their collaboration when Rowena had caught onto the admission the Host had never made to a living soul before. That he preferred the masculine to the feminine. He was thankful that the Ancient one of the Sanctum Sanctorum had voiced what was clear in the Coven’s writing that he refused to see or read in the words of the Fàidhe of Crëwr – that the Immortal would fall in love with the Righteous Man. He would give Dean all the time he needed to be comfortable in accepting Castiel’s affections, even if he was never capable of returning them.

*****************************************************************************************************

Dean stood on the peak looking down into the lake below and the cluster of tents and cabins that comprised Camp Chitaqua. He thought back over the journey that had started with that seven-figure deal of a lifetime that he thought would give him the opportunity to clear the slates and start again. It had too. Not in the way that he had expected it to, but here on Moondor he had a fresh start – an opportunity to be a better, wiser, more balanced Dean. Oh, he had his vices – but they no longer ruled his life. He recalled with fondness the people who had given their lives for the freedom of Wēalhaz. At least here among the inhabitants of Camp Chitaqua their sacrifice would never be forgotten. Charlie would see to that. Dean wasn’t sure that he’d ever be able to repay Charlie for everything that she’d done and was doing to keep the hope alive that the planet would learn from its mistakes. Maybe that was a forlorn hope. People had a habit of forgetting the lessons of the past when push came to shove. One thing Dean was sure of – Team Free Will had fulfilled the words of the Fàidhe in the Doethineda.

Dean turned and walked away from the view of the basecamp. As welcoming as the people were, other than Charlie, Dean wasn’t close to them. The people that mattered in his life were here with him on this mountain. When Dean flopped down beside the campfire with Sam on his right and Cas on his left everything was right in Dean’s world. For the first time since he was a young child when both his parents were alive, Dean was happy and content with his life. The relationship repaired with Sammy. One day, he hoped Sam would find the woman that would make him happy. He deserved it. As for him, Dean wasn’t ready yet for Cas to be anything more than his best friend. Perhaps one day he would be brave enough to take that leap. Until then, he’d kindle that tiny spark of hope in his heart and pray to whoever was listening that, if that day finally came, Cas would love him back.

****************************************************************************************************

Sam took a long drag on his beer as he stared into the flames. If you had asked him two years ago where he would be, Moondor wouldn’t have even made the list. Now he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. If Sam had one regret it was that he was alone. Not literally, of course. There was the whole of Charlie’s operation, Cas and Dean. It was often hard to find a moment’s peace at Camp Chitaqua. That didn’t stop him from being lonely. If he had a do over, he would have made one more request of the Coven no matter the personal cost – save Eileen Leahy from Lucifer. The two of them might never have met again. If they had met, there was no guarantee that they would have gotten together. Sam liked to think they would, that he’d read all the little signals she’d given him when he was in the coffee shop correctly. Sam clung to the hope that his happily ever after included someone by his side, like Cas and Dean would have if only they would only get their act together. He smiled around the top of the beer bottle when Dean sat down between him and Cas, unknowingly settling closer to Cas than to his own brother. Sam though it was cute. At times, Sam’s hope faded, not yet convinced that he would be good enough for anyone. The Doethineda were ominously silent on the life of the Boy King once Wēalhaz was free and they had been eerily correct so far. Sam sometimes thought that a life on his own would be appropriate penance for the screw ups he had made, and the lives Sam had destroyed by his own arrogance.

Sam tried not to dwell too long on it, but occasionally he would wonder what history would make of him. How he had been outplayed by Lucifer at every turn during his career in the Midwest. Could fulfilling his destiny as one of the Saviours of Wēalhaz make up for the actions of the Butcher of East Beltline? Mostly Sam doubted it. It didn’t stop him praying fervently that in some way every sacrifice he had in bring freedom to his home planet would atone in some measure for that heinous error of judgement made in youthful conceit. In case they hadn’t, Sam had one lats ace up his sleeve. He’d agreed to work with Charlie researching the ancient texts and the lore of the Host, the Coven and Ancient Wēalhaz. They were searching for the best of all three civilisations based on Charlie’s crazy notion that perhaps in melding the positive attributes of each civilisation, they could create one on Moondor that looked out for everyone regardless of their race, age, gender, orientation or religion. It was lofty ideal, but one Sam could easily throw himself into creating on his new home.

****************************************************************************************************

As it says in the recent but highly revered Book of Cathal (5:22):

_“Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can. The people who read these books of prophecies are always gonna bitch. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. But it’s only one vision of the future, so how can it be so definitive in its ending”_

So, what did this tale all add up to? It's hard to say. The Host were vanquished. The people of Wēalhaz were free. It did finally leak out, a couple of years after the overthrow of the Archangels and the start of the battle for the planet’s freedom, that there had indeed been a Team Free Will, Saviours of Wēalhaz. Once that had leaked out, people began to give credence to the concept of a rogue angel that had betrayed his own. From there it was possible for a few brilliant souls, who believed in the ancient prophecies, to plough their way through the Host records and to work out who had been involved. One such believer, a Bela Talbot, gleefully declared that The Immortal, the Righteous Man, and the Boy King turned were nothing more than two brothers fallen from grace with the ruling classes and one traitorous member of the Corca Oidce. To say that it went down like a lead balloon in the Great Temples was an understatement. Many priests turned the places of worship into gathering places where ‘anything goes’ – for the right price. Other powerful leaders rose to fill positions in the commerce arms of the companies once run by the Host. New laws were passed daily, ostensibly to give the people back their rights. But none of the laws giving governments and other rulers’ surveillance rights were repealed – all remain in place for the well-being of the good citizens of their territories. One or two hard-line fundamentalists claim that the will of the Cruthadair had not been fully completed, that the saviours of Wēalhaz would return to finish the job – someday. Perhaps the best way, then, to sum everything up is to say that nothing ever really ends, does it?

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I don't own the rights to the lyrics herein or the words taken from Chuck's speech at the end of Swan Song. All rights remain with the content's owner.
> 
> There you have it. My first ever gen fic and first Team Free Will Big Bang. If you enjoyed the ride as much as I loved writing it, please take the time to hit the kudos and comment. Knowing what you guys think means so much to me. No matter what you thought: thank you for reading! :)


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